Exitus Acta Probat (NO LONGER UPDATED)
by AvocadoSamurai
Summary: Cut off from his masters on an unfamiliar planet, an Vindicare assassin must come to grips with his own Humanity and what it means to be human. Will be updated weekly. Rated M for future gore and themes.
1. The Beginning

He sprinted through the corridors of the Mechanicus base. The straps on his shoulder rubbed his flesh raw through his form fitting synskin suit. Behind him, an explosion rocked the base. Rockcrete dust and smoke filled the air and obscured his vision. It didn't matter as much. The generator room was close now.

Four forms jumped at him through the smoke. The Chaos corrupted forms of Skitarii shot at him with tainted arc rifles. He dodged the deadly arcing lightning with a roll. It struck the walls near him, scattering across the ferrocrete walls. He aimed and fired three times, destroying servos and flesh alike. Rifle clicking empty, he swung the Rifle across his shoulder and rushed the final Skitarii with all his strength. It's mechanical horror of a face drew into a confused expression before he punched it. The Ring smashed into metal, but he felt something break in his hand. The Skitarii fell hard.

Another explosion rocked everything and sent chunks falling from the rood. He recovered and kept running. He ran into the generator room and slammed the button that closed the door. Strange crescents filled the room, hooked up to screens that displayed statistics, he neither understood nor cared about. He recognized them instantly as Necron Pylons. It was strange but not confusing. It was unsurprising that the traitorous Mechanicus stationed here would experiment with Xenos technology. He recognized his primary objective, of the more natural fusion reactors of Imperial design. Walking across a metal walkway, he unpacked the charges and set them in key locations within the core.

Satisfied, he ran to the sole exit he came in through.

The door exploded into ferrocrete chunks as dangerous as any Basilisk shrapnel. A piece exploded across his torso, tearing his suit and stumbling him. He dropped with an agonized roll and took cover behind a pylon as the Skittari Alpha entered the room. He was the height of two normal men, more machine than flesh, with extra limbs. Two held a smoking galvanic rifle. Others held blasphemed radium weapons. They pointed at the pylon the Assassin was hidden behind.

He jumped just as the pylon exploded into sparks. It began glowing with power. The Assassin felt something electrical permeate the air. He ignored it and calculated his next play. The Alpha was fast but he was faster. There was a weak point near the neck, where the augmentix limbs connected to the torso.

He fired as he jumped, calculating trajectories in terran microseconds. They should've been clean hits. Instead, they exploded across an invisible barrier. Force shield. There was no way he could destabilize it with his pistol. He would need to use the Rifle. He twisted, smashed into a metal bar, and landed wrong. His ankle twisted, sending him stumbling towards the Alpha.

A massive armoured limb smashed into his face, sending him tumbling through the air. He landed on his tailbone, skidding to a stop beside the broken remains of the door The rifle detached from his back and landed a body length away out of reach. Every part of his body hurt, and he could taste blood in his mouth.

The Assassin raised the pistol and fired again and again. Each round exploded uselessly against the shield. The damaged Necron pylon filled the air with an unnatural neon-green glow as the Alpha walked past it. It stopped and stared at the Assassin with what looked like a snarl. He realized it was a smile.

It stopped and raised its weapons. The Necron pylon began whining. There was one more round in the Exitus pistol. He realized he would not survive. He adjusted his aim past the Alpha, towards the charges he placed.

"For the Emperor…"

The Alpha turned. He fired. And then the room was filled with light.

_︻┻┳══━一_

He woke up with a splitting headache and blood in his mouth. Even so, he tried to get up, gasped as a sudden wave of pain racked his body. Collapsing onto the hard ground, the jagged edge of a broken rib stabbed into his lung, as a dozen other wounds demanded attention. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He accepted the pain, welcomed it like an old friend. It told him he was alive.

It wasn't the only evidence to that point. If he had died and his soul had entered the Warp, it would've been torn apart by its denizens and consumed. It was the first thing the Lord Assassin had taught him after he arrived on Terra. He frowned at this knowledge.

There was no way he had survived the blast. The satchel charges he had set off would've destabilized the fusion reactors on the mechanicus base and vaporized everything in a kilometre wide circle. He was three metres away from the epicenter. Still, somehow, he was alive. He opened his eyes and saw black. Had he gone blind? He panicked for a moment before calming himself down.

The spy-mask must have been unpowered. He saw none of the familiar overlay and felt no continuous relay of information. He shivered, not only from cold. The spy-mask was an essential component of his arsenal, master-crafted with scanners and auspex that allowed him to monitor enemy communication channels and his own surroundings. If it was broken…

He tested his right arm. It protested with pops but moved to the side of his face. He restarted the mask as he gave a quick prayer to the Omnissiah. He held his breath as a tense second passed. Then two. A faint clicking and whirling started. He allowed a faint sense of relief to rush through him.

Another moment passed before he heard a faint beeping, followed by the electrical hum of his spy-mask powering on. Sensing his consciousness, it reawakened from its power saving dormancy. He shivered as it reintegrated with him, scanning his body through his own nerves. A moment passed as it processed the information, before it began blasting his mind with status reports and statistics. He absorbed it all with ease, if not comfort.

He had three cracked ribs, one broken, a sprained ankle, multiple second degree burns, concussion, and a dislocated left pointer finger. The mask diagnosed his injuries and administered a stim. The stabbing pains subsided somewhat, replaced by the itch of muscles and skin knitting back together. Satisfied inwards, the mask looked out.

The atmosphere was breathable, with an oxygen level higher than most planets in the Imperium. Strangely free of pollutants. The gravity was 0.9Gs, as compared to Terra. The temperature was cold, three degrees below freezing, but survivable, even in his current injured condition.

His confusion mounted. It was unlikely he was anywhere on Aricia. The planet's climate had been destroyed by eons of manufacturing, raising the temperature to a scorching heat. There was no more natural cold. All of it was manufactured, designed to keep workers alive and producing. Even the extreme poles were barely cold enough to shelter liquid water from the malignant gaze of the binary stars the planet orbited.

So where was he?

He tested his body. It felt better than when he first awakened. He pushed himself to a sitting position, his Ring poking into the ground.

Evergreen trees filled his vision. A cold breeze chilled his skin through the tears in his synskin suit. The sun was bright but brought no warmth. Curiously, there was no sound of wildlife despite the vegetation. No birds chirped, no insects buzzed. His Rifle lay next to him, and he picked it up and lay it on his lap.

The Exitus rifle straddled the line between a sniper rifle and an artillery piece. Unloaded, it was fifteen kilograms. He checked for obstructions while reaching for a magazine on his body. Satisfied, he rammed the magazine home. The Rifle worked its charging handle automatically.

It was closer to twenty pounds now, ten rounds of 25mm adamantium-tipped turbo-penetrator rounds loaded. Each was hand-crafted by master craftsman in the Officio Assassinorum and could crack the faceplate of a heretic Dreadnought. The sleek machine spirit inside hummed, eager to begin. The weight and feeling reassured him as he slung it across his back in a practiced motion. He drew the pistol and did the same.

He took a deep breath as he stood up. The blood rushed to his head and made him feel dizzy. For a moment, he almost passed out. The sensation passed and he began a sit-rep.

He was injured, but not fatally. The stim had taken the edge off, but he would need to check his wounds as soon as he was able. Most of his equipment was functioning. The synskin was damaged, but still provided a twenty five percent boost to his power. The suit would repair themselves in time. The spy-mask had a broken eyepiece and about two days worth of power left. He could charge it if he could find any sort of electrical output. In the meantime, he would keep it on its power saving mode. He set it on scanning for communications and possible nearby settlements, human and otherwise. Better Xenos than empty. He could find a way off-planet with Xenos. Each agent was trained in espionage, and how to operate the heretical technology of both the Eldar and the Necron. Granted, he was Vindicare, and not as skilled at either than Callidus at trickery, but he could make do.

Something large rustled in the bush next to him. He turned around, staring. The sound stopped.

He had about two mags of standard Turbo-Penetrator ammunition. One Hellfire magazine for biological threats, and one Shell Breaker for shielded. He could make more if he found the materials, and some sort of workstation. For the pistol, he only had two more Turbo-Penetrator magazines. A common assumption was that the Exitus pistol shared ammo with the Rifle. While Rifle cartridges could be converted to pistol ones, it did not work vice versa. And if he ran out, he had his knife. And the Ring, of course.

Another rustle broke his concentration. It stopped again when he looked at it. This time however, he turned on the thermal overlay. Two forms stared at him through the underbrush. He felt the hair on his neck rise. Pivoting, he scanned all around him. One was behind him and three more covered his flanks. Six in total.

Surrounded.

He readied his pistol and drew the knife. The forms got closer and closer.

A black beast with a white and red bone mask broke through the underbrush. Its eyes were red and filled with hatred. Around him, similar forms came at him. They reminded him of the Fenrisian wolves found on the home planet of the Space Wolves. If they had the same behaviorisms, he had to stand his ground.

The one behind him charged with a savage roar. He sidestepped its initial attack and brought the knife down, smashing through bone and flesh. It fell, spinal cord cut. The rest stared at their fallen comrade before coming at him at the same time.

He shot three of them as they charged, adamantium jacket punching through fur and bone with ease. His knife glistened as it slashed through the air, slicing the jugular of one more.

The final slammed into his back, trying to bite his arm through the synskin suit. He punched, putting muscle and augmentix into the blow. The wolf fell back, bones shattering. He grabbed it by the scruff of its neck holding it out an arms length away. It jerked violently, trying to bite him. After a moment's study, he broke the thing's neck.

The corpses of the fallen were already dissipating leaving a bad taste in the Assassin's mouth. He had originally thought them to be merely a violent sub-sapient predator. Now, it reeked of the taint of Chaos. Every other target, even the foul races of Xenos, were predictable in their goals if nothing else. Only the ruinous powers served no purpose but to destroy and consume. If the powers of Chaos could manifest themselves in a physical form on this planet…

It had to be destroyed immediately.

The spy-mask beeped once. A signal had been discovered thirteen clicks north from his position. The encryption had been rudimentary. Looking around, the thermal scan detected no other forms. If nothing else, he needed information. The mask displayed the symbols of the native language. It was completely undecipherable with no discernible letters or spacing. He thought about it for a second. Either that meant that the local denizens were Xenos or that they had been isolated from the Imperium so long, that they no longer spoke standardized Low or High Gothic. Neither was a hopeful option. Xenos were untrustworthy and violent by default while a world separated from the Imperium could be heretical. He looked at the intercepted message again. While the spy-mask could do many things, translation without a key was not one of them. The only source of information was through its inhabitants. He tentatively stretched one leg. Then the other.

And began walking.

_︻┻┳══━一_

**Author's note:**

**This is my first fanfiction combining my two favorite universes, RWBY and Warhammer 40k. The main character is an OC, a Vindicare assassin far from home and reinforcements. I'll flesh out his story eventually. RWBY characters should show up next chapter. If you like this story, please rate and comment on how to improve. Thanks!**


	2. Assumptions and Realizations

It got colder as he walked, until his breath could be seen passing through his respirators. He kept his suit at the lowest power setting, just enough for heating and full range of motion.

He was attacked as he went. Each attack further cemented his theory in the heretical origin of the monsters. By default, he was silent as he traveled. Each time, they had honed it on him out of nowhere, converging despite a lack of sound or sight. Once, by the black beasts he faced earlier. Twice, by birds as malicious as they were giant. He had slashed at them futilely as they swooped by, but succeeded only in getting the synskin on his arms torn as they attacked with razor sharp talons. After drawing, the pistol made short work of them, but at a cost. He was down to the last magazine in his pistol. Granted, he hadn't used any of the rifle ammo yet, but he liked to use the pistol in close quarters combat where the rifle was unwieldy.

His wounds were tender, but sufficiently healed as to not affect combat effectiveness. There were more mortal concerns. Accelerated healing and maneuvering around icy mountainous terrain was hard on the metabolism. Bluntly, he was cold, thirsty, and hungry. Normally, the suit cared for all of that, providing insulation, recycling water, and administering concentrated nutrient capsules. But it was damaged.

The terrain had been rougher than he had expected. The synskin suit was torn in many places, barely managing to break its enhancements even with its weight. And the continuous attacks by the beasts had forced him to keep the spy-mask active. He reassessed charge life to twelve hours, down over one hundred percent from his initial estimate of two days. Ammunition was a problem, as it would continue to be until he could find a suitable workstation. The Ring had two uses, maybe three. His knife had a dissonance field, but had been crafted during the Dark Age of Technology and was self charging. All of it relied on him making it to civilization.

In the past, there had always been strategically inserted supply drops in every place he had conducted a mission. Only once before, through a freak accident with a promethium factory, had he had to craft his own ammunition. It had taken him the better half of a day to create a single round, and that was on a forge-world. It wasn't just cartridge, propellant, and bullet. There had to be a primary charge, a secondary rocket stage, tertiary penetrators, all surrounding a gyrostabilizer. And that was all to propel a specialist bullet-tip as complicated, if not more. Each component was fine tuned to an insane degree, designed to never fail in all conditions, while simultaneously being ultra lethal.

The first thing he would do when he reached civilization would be to locate its manufacturing capacities. He could work with anything post-microchip, but replicator level technology was preferable. His synskin suit could repair itself, but slowly, and connected to power. The spy-mask could to a degree as well, but the lenses had to be replaced. And there had to be power.

The fact that his mask could get a signal showed that there was complex technology in some form. It was not a guarantee however. That could mean anything from post-industrial radio up to the reality-defying technology of the Necrontyr.

The signal origin was closer now. Incomprehensible symbols and pictures jumped onto his vision. Some appeared to be advertisements. There was one with two men dressed in bright costumes that looked like undergarments. Another with a half naked lady. He filed it all away. They may be useful if he ever needed to learn the language.

Another click to go. He pushed on.

Unknown to him, a camara tracked his every movement.

_︻┻┳══━一_

Years of combat experience had led up to this moment. In a firm stroke, the old grizzled major pressed the button. Black liquid continued flowing. He cursed, half pleading, half in anger, as he repeatedly pressed the "stop. Coffee overfilled his cup, spilling onto white sterile tiles. He sighed as the machine stopped a moment afterwards. He decided as he picked up the cup that this was the most boring post in Atlas. The most danger he ever had to face was the malfunctioning coffee machine, and the occasional…

He spilled coffee on his freshly cleaned white uniform. It smeared as he tried to wipe it off with the other hand. His subordinates saluted as he sat back down behind his desk. They were privates, freshly graduated, treating their jobs as the most important thing in the world.

It's not that it wasn't, he thought. It was an important job, he knew that. During the Great War, it was Atlases or then Mantle's, scouts that forewarned the main army against invasion. Now, the torch had been passed to a massive surveillance network surrounding the wilderness around and underneath Atlas. With improved technology, cameras and surveillance teams could keep a watchful eye against invasion by both Grimm and other humans. In theory.

Trees filled the monitors in front of him. Occasionally, a breeze would sway the leaves. In practice, nothing ever happened. There had been peace for a little over eighty years now. Occasionally, a straggling grimm would pass by and be immediately obliterated by the automated defense system that surrounded the floating kingdom. He sighed again. Only six more hours to go. It wouldn't be as bad if...

"Sir, contact in Sector 287A!"

He glanced over the respective monitor. A giant black Ursa walked down a slope with more dexterity than something of its large size would indicate. He stifled a yawn.

"Clear to engage."

Atlesian weaponry mounted on drones fired. The Ursa exploded. Its remains began dissipating as soon as the chunks hit the ground. A moment passed. Then two.

"Sir, contact in Sector 114B!"

More black, white, and red. A flock of Nevermore this time.

"Clear to engage," he paused. "You don't have to ask every time."

Please.

"Sir!"

He counted the ticks of the clock on one hand. He treasured the brief moment of silence. It happened again. Three seconds passed. A new record. Then again. He knew it wasn't their fault. They were fresh out of Academy and still followed the rules. Regulations expressly told them to always ask the permission of a superior officer before attacking. Damned it if wasn't annoying though.

"Sir, contact in Sector 069C!"

"Clear to engage. Again, I give you permission to engage without my approval."

Again and again. Each time he reminded them that they could engage independently. None of them took him up on the offer. Maybe if he phrased it as an order...

"Private, I order you to engage independently based on your own intuition."

"Sir!"

A minute passed. Had that worked? A sliver of hope went through him. It was crushed a second later. He reminded the private that yes, he could engage all a Goliath. The same for a cycled through the list until it landed back on slight variations of beowulves. He internally screamed as he externally took a deep breath. An Atlesian soldier does not complain… Does not show emotion.

"Sir…"

"You can fire on Deathstalkers too!"

"It's not that-"

"**AND IMPS!**" He exploded as he saw a black humanoid grimm through the corner of his eye. The private flinched at the sudden outburst. He stammered, not wishing to further draw the major's ire.

"S-sir, I think that's a person…"

The major went still and carefully watched the monitor. The black figure was far, but even at a distance, he could discern that it wasn't a Grimm. They were too deft, too determined in their movement. The figure bounded a stream, landed with grace and speed on traitorous icy ground. Closer now, he could tell that they were wearing some sort of form fitting suit. And they were armed to the teeth. A almost-comically large gun was on their back, complimenting a sword and pistol that hung around the figure's waist. He froze the tape and stared. Red lenses centered on a white mask stared back.

"Now, what in Remnant are you?"

_︻┻┳══━一_

The thing lashed out with its golden tail. He sidestepped, rolled to dodge claws as wide as he was tall. He unloaded two shots, winced as they cracked the carapace but didn't penetrate. The thing skittered towards him with speed belying its size. He had been attacked just as the signal grew stronger, by a massive scorpion.

It was the first of this type of beast he had seen, he thought, darting backwards. There had been the corrupt wolves, the carrion birds, even the strange grox-looking things. But never an insectoid. Or something a single bullet couldn't put down. A claw whistled as it passed him. He calculated a strategy. If the white parts were armoured, then the limbs would be weaker. He adjusted his aim towards the joints. Three shots tore off a limb gushing black sludge. The thing fell onto his left size, losing its balance.

He aimed at another, got a shot off, then his pistol beeped empty. Out of ammo. The scorpion regained its footing, eight eyes staring with malicious intent. Holstering the pistol, he unslung the rifle, crouched into a shooting position in a fluid motion. It was point blank range, with no need to compensate for gravity. Entering the marksman's trance, he saw the scorpion charge through the scope.

It exploded.

Flaming carapace. fell to the ground around him. A golden stinger impaled the ground near him, oozing venom. The Vindicare lowered the weapon. He hadn't fired. An airship hovered above him, buffeting him with waves of air and sound. He hadn't seen or heard it's arrival in his trance. Missiles hung on its side, one conspicuously missing. The Vindicare noted in relief that the pilot was human. They waved.

He had never seen this aircraft or weapon in any STC which meant it must have been a planetary exclusive invention. He thought carefully about this knowledge. The Tech-Priests of Mars were suspicious of anything and everything new. It took Terran decades for a new design to be approved, centuries to actually start any sort of mass-production. It was unlikely that the latest invention would be found on a backwater feral planet that wasn't even planet-spanning. The planet must have innovated the Valkyrie STC on their own. Or… Everything slowed down. He could see the turbines in the aircraft move.

The galaxy was vast. Impossibly, incalculably vast. During the Dark Age of Technology, Mankind had spread to all of the galaxy. With safe warp travel, his Lord Assassin estimated that hundreds of millions, if not billions of planets had been touched by mankind's hand. Today, the Imperium consisted of a few million planets, all located within the range of the Astronomican as based on Old Terra. Fleets of rogue traders skirted the edges of the known space, where the light of the Astronomican was as bright as a flickering wax candle, eager to claim the last undiscovered planets. Some even ventured further, pushing into the darkness where even the third eye of the Navigators could not see. Most were never seen again.

It was possible, however unlikely, that this planet had never been discovered by the Imperium. He thought about the Necron pylon back on base. They were one of the only species with warpless FTL travel, featuring theoretically impossible instantaneous teleportation. He drew himself into the memory before he blew the charges. At the time, he hadn't noticed, but the Pylon had been charging continuously throughout the fight.

Right before he went unconscious, everything had been bathed in a signature green light. The Pylon had exploded into light before the satchels blew.

He had been teleported.

This planet could be far, far away from the Imperium. He felt a wave of cold wash through his body. Every assassin knew that each mission could be their death. That was expected. And each assassin was a master at a thousand crafts, in case they ever were stranded. Which happened fairly often, all things considered. Finding passage offplanet was much harder than you would think in the aftermath of the assasination of a high ranking official, or purging of a city-wide genestealer cult... or the destruction of an Mechanicus base. He had been fully prepared to spend decades waiting. Granted, he had been lucky thus far, waiting barely weeks before the Officio Assasinorum extracted him. But he was ready.

This was different. He may **never **make it back to Terra again. And he would be alive for it. Each waking moment for the past terran decade had been in preparation to serve the Imperium. Every analgesia free surgery, every bone-grinding exercise. What would he do know? He processed a thousand thoughts and came up with no satisfying answer.

He drew himself back to reality with a sudden halt. His brain ached at the speed he had made calculations. The jet engines roared to life. He would first figure out what exactly the planet entailed and learn more about its history and culture. They had to understand the strange black beasts more than him.

Yes. He would talk, figure things out. One step at a time.

He waved back.

_︻┻┳══━一_

**Author's Note: And that's the second chapter! I have always really enjoyed using the Officio Assassinorum in games, even when they were terrible back in 7th edition. Consequently, I read a few 40k books. It struck me how little Officio Assasinourm info there is. There's really only three books, one in the Horus Heresy series, a few snippets here and there, and the codex. And they differed massively in their depictions of Vindicare. Some had them as things that only knew how to kill. I read one where the Vindicare couldn't even eat naturally. Still others describe them as jack-of-all-trades, capable in infiltration, bribery, medical matters, if only truly mastering marksmanship. I've opted for a more balanced character as I think it should be more complex than what is basically a combat servitor. And it would make more sense. Also I am fully knowledgeable of how insane the RWBY characters are. I've decided to use them post V3 where they are much weaker than V1-2, where they are practically superhero levels. **


	3. Faunus in the Cradle

**Chapter 3**

There were three people inside the not Valkyrie, not including him. The first was the pilot, who sat in the front, behind a closed door. The other two sat with him, in the back. One was young, wearing a whitish gray carapace armour with blue highlights on his helmet that covered everything except his mouth. He had an autogun in his hands and a folding sword attached to his belt. The other was older and looked like an officer with a pristine uniform white everywhere except a curious brown blob on the front. The Vindicare wondered if the brown mark was symbolic, though he could not imagine what for. Each planet had the strangest traditions. As the plane gained altitude, the officer spoke.

"U bɪn faɪtɪŋ grɪmm aʊt hir əloʊn?"

The Vindicare was surprised. He could understand him.

Sort of.

The officer spoke an archaic dialect of proto High Gothic, ancient by the time the Emperor had emerged during the Age of Strife. He recorded the message, noting inflections and emphasises. He memorized each word, related it to a known one, for future reference. It was much less elegant, not dissimilar to if a slurring Orgyn who had taken a stubber round to the head would speak High Gothic. And what was a "Grimm"? Was that what the natives called the chaos spawn?

"Kæn you tɔk**?"**

The Vindicare didn't respond. The officer would've been able to notice his accent immediately. He decided to point at his mask multiple times, before touching his vertical index finger to his lips. It would indicate that he could not talk through the mask. The officer stared at him.

"You kænt giɛt jʊərr heɛlmət ɔff**?**

The Vindicare shook his head. That half wasn't completely a lie. The cerebral studs and spinal cord integration kept the mask from being removed by anyone except him. It was completely false that the mask kept him from speaking however. Speakers were installed right underneath the respirator. The officer trailed a gaze across the Vindicare, hanging when they reached the weapons. Their face scrunched up a little.

"Spɛʃələsts**?"**

Special-ist? Sounded like a rank. The officer seemed to think that it was an explanation so he nodded. The officer nodded and looked away muttering something about "fucking specialists." He noticed the the word "Fuck" and filed it away. Maybe it was some kind of colloquial slang that he could use to appear more native. It was an important part of any infiltration mission to not appear like an outsider.

"Gɛsɪŋ you wɑnt tu tɔk tu Dɛnrəl Iərnwʊd ðɛn, ?"

Iron-wood? That sounded like a name. The officer was clearly under his command by the respect, and slight disgust, he showed on his voice. The Vindicare nodded again. The officer motioned to the pilot. Curiously, the aircraft began to climb up, instead of turning right or left to travel. The signal in his mask grew stronger.

He wondered how they had found him. They couldn't have heard the gunfire if they were more than a few paces away. The Exitus pistol had a built-in suppressor and adjustable accelerating rails, like the rifle. While he had not been firing it on the quietest subsonic setting, it would not project much noise past the treeline. Perhaps there had been a patrol in the area?

No.

He had seen no patrolling aircraft since he had been teleported nor any signs of people in general for that manner. It had been just him and the strange black beasts.

On the other hand, he hadn't exactly been stealthy. In a normal mission, his stealth-suit and spy mask would've served to obscure any auspex, whether it be thermal or motion based. With them in low power mode, anybody would have seen him move. And while he moved quietly through years of training by default, he had not hidden. The beasts had forced him to move continuously, or risk being overwhelmed.

Maybe the natives had the entire forest wired up? They must've known about the black beasts. It would've been useful to know both the quantity and type, and migration patterns, if they applied.

They would've been able to see him through the network and extracted him accordingly. That made the most sense. The plane continued to climb in altitude. The officer stared through a window in silence. But now what would he do? Eventually, they would figure out that he was not one of these "Specialists."

He could kill them all and commandeer the ship. But that would be virtually useless. There was nowhere to go since the entire planet was unknown territory. They were friendly, at least for now. Killing them would also aggravate their comrades something he wanted to avoid if he was going to be stuck here long term.

He could also jump out. It was still survivable, if a bit painful at this altitude. But then they could simply descend and pick him up again. And then they would become suspicious if they weren't already. No that wasn't right either.

He would keep going as long as he could, meet this "General Ironwood." Perhaps he could get some information.

_︻┻┳══━一_

Major Nell Carnelian ordered a Bullhead be made ready for flight as soon as possible. The annoying private, he still didn't know his name, came with him.

The figure from the tape sat in front of him. He had jumped onboard as soon as the doors had opened and sat down without a word. That was good. Nell had been afraid that the figure would try to escape, or worse, attack on sight. They were a hunter, no doubt about it, from the weaponry, but must have completely run out of aura at some point, judging from the rips in the strange black clothing. If so, it was lucky that they had found him before the Deathstalker had attacked. Both the cold and the Grimm would've killed an aura-less Hunter very quickly. Nell waited for some time, hoping the black clad stranger would explain himself.

When no response came, he tried to instigate a conversation. The only indication that the stranger had even heard was a slight turn of the head. It was a little creepy how still they were. It reminded him of the unpiloted Atlesian Paladin in storage. Nell paused.

In fact, the stranger's chest wasn't even rising with breath. The only indication that the stranger was human was the bare skin and blood that showed through the rips. Even the private was unnerved, shuffling his feet.

Nell asked if the stranger could talk.

More animated than he had ever seen, the stranger pointed to his mask, before signing silence. Nell understood. You couldn't talk through a respirator. Though…

"You can't take the mask off?"

The stranger shook his head. A thousand thoughts went through Nell's head. Maybe the stranger was a spy and trying to hide his identity! Nell's eyes narrowed before opening again. That was ridiculous. It was peacetime, eighty years now, and the stranger had climbed abroad willingly. If they were wanted men, they would've escaped earlier. It was more likely that the stranger had disfiguring scars, and didn't want to show them. Nell took a closer look at him.

The black armour was more of a form fitting suit, not far from what diver's wore. In the vital areas, harder pieces interlocked together over for extra protection. At the joints, there was a thick but flexible fabric. It was not a one-piece as Nell had previously believed. Boots tracked mud onto the floor. A curious skull ring was on the left glove. The suit was torn in several places, revealing tan skin and dried blood.

Lower, on the left side, a pistol lay in a securely fastened drop holster. On the right, a box was directly built into the suit. The stranger wore a belt, with a sheathed knife as large as a sword, and two pockets for magazines. Both were empty. Nell didn't recognize the calibre. On his body, across the chest plate, four massive magazines lay in a practical chest rig. Exactly three cartridges were in the open, across an arm bandolier. They looked ridiculously large, as wide as two fingers, and as long as a hand. The artillery piece of a gun that fired them was strapped to the stranger's back, barrel poking over the shoulder, and stock close to touching the ground.

The outfit was finished with the mask. It was a grayish white, with an antenna rising up on the right side, and a respirator down the middle. Two tubes ran from the sides and met there. Red stared at Nell. The angle of the lenses gave the impression of anger. Overall, the colour scheme and look was reminiscent of the Grimm masks that the White Fang wore.

They were definitely a hunter. Only hunters had such unique weapons and wore such strange outfits. Though, the stranger's was the weirdest one by far. Everything looked incredibly high-tech, almost like Atlas's experimental section. The only people who used said equipment were the specia…

Wait.

"Specialist?!"

White and red bobbed up and down. Everything made sense. Everyone knew that the Specialists were weird. It takes a special type of crazy to dedicate your entire life to the military, and the Specialists were the worst offenders. If they weren't they were sociopaths who got off on pain, they were psychopaths with no emotions whatsoever. The black Specialist was definitely one of the latter. Nell had seen Atlesian Knights with more personality.

Specialists reported only to General Ironwood. The stranger had definitely been on a black bag operation of some sort. It didn't take a genius to connect the dots. Hell, the specialist probably didn't activate his aura because he liked the pain.

"Guessing you want to talk to General Ironwood?"

The Specialist nodded, almost imperceptibly. Nell signalled to the pilot to head to Atlas Academy.

In the meantime, he scooted as far away as he could.

_︻┻┳══━一_

The Vindicare was dropped in front of a large gray building before the aircraft flew away. The officer said "Atləs əkædəmi" gave no further explanation. Truth be told, he seemed almost happy that the Vindicare was gone. He appreciated the practical and monochromatic architecture. A few gray and white students looked at him before continuing. None made eye contact.

He moved as soon as the pilot was out of sight. He avoided "Atlas Academy" for now. It was some sort of military academy, judging by the uniforms of the students. If Ironwood ran this place, he would be able to tell he wasn't a Specialist immediately. He took up a fast but not rushed pace.

He would need clothes, food, a base of some sort, and something with mesomanufacturing capability for the mask and ammo. Each of those needed something of monetary value. But where was he going to get money? He didn't know if the planet accepted Throne Gelts, but it didn't matter because he didn't have any. He couldn't find a job if he didn't speak the language, and he definitely wasn't going to be hired with his current outfit. And he wasn't going to sell anything.

He scanned, found a man with a security guard ahead, walking towards him. An old man to be more exact. They were pale, almost albino, and wore an expensive looking double-jacket with a red handkerchief in the breast pocket, walking with a regal, almost arrogant air. They looked rich. It would work. The Vindicare noted several pockets.

Pretending to look across the street, the Vindicare took several long strides. The guard noticed, reached out, while opening his mouth. It was too late. The Vindicare walked into the old man, knocking both off balance. The guard reacted in an instant, pushing the Vindicare off and sending him tumbling to the ground. The old man regained his balance and glared down at him. Their cold blue eyes shone with malice.

"Wɑʧ wɛr you're goʊɪŋ!"

They walked on past. The guard threw a glance back before continuing. The Vindicare got up, turned around, and kept walking. He opened the wallet. It was full of what appeared to be colourful strips of paper. There were four colours, each with a "L" with two lines drawn through it. A magnetic strip was on the back of each. He had no idea how much each was worth. On the other hand, he held a white rounded rectangle, with a golden diamond down the middle. He pressed on it, but it flashed red. Probably bio-locked. He'll see if he could crack it later.

The gray grounds of school villa slowly gave way to a more commercial row. There were more civilians now, pointing and staring. Some even began to take pictures. Even though he could see stores, he needed someplace much more discrete. He kept walking and took a right down a narrow alleyway. It was an old hive-world trick. The buildings got more and more diphilidated as he continued.

Eventually, it opened back up, showing a ramshackle assortment of buildings that desperately needed a wash and a fresh layer of paint. Looking around, he saw a sign with a pair of eating utensils and a bed along. Even though he couldn't read the accompanying words, he recognized the hablock. A bell chimed gently as he opened the door.

The woman who manned the register was young, with dark hair, and bright inquisitive eyes. He paused. She looked like someone's daughter, with a smile that could light up a room. A faint sense of revulsion ran through him that he struggled to quell. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to reach across the table and strangle her to death.

"Nid ə ruum mɪstər?"

Two ears sat on top of her head.

Mutant. Like all Imperials, he believed that the human form was sacred, and to deviate from it was heretical, growing out of a corrupted soul. The presence of a mutant on this planet was worrisome. A Magos Biologis had once taught him that proximity to certain environmental or chemical factors could damage genetic and biological makeup.

He hoped that it was radiation or some exotic chem weapon. The only other explanation was direct exposure to Warp energies. In that case, the only solution would be Exterminatus.

"... Mister?"

He took a deep breath and waited until he was sure his first action would not be to bash the thing's face in. He was better than most in this regard. The Officio Assassinorum agent evaluated context, purpose, and consequence. The mutant lived in the open, without harassment. That showed a certain level of societal acceptance. Destroying it would likely bring the planet's version of Arbites, and law enforcement to his position.

Another figure walked into the room. She was much older, with hair that fell to her shoulders, and a wary look in her eyes. Another pair of feline ears. The familial resemblance was not hard to see.

"Wʌts going ɑn hir?

"Doʊnt noʊ mʌm**. **ðɪs gaɪ ʤʌst wɔkt ɪn ænd hæzənt sɛd ə wɜrd**."**

The older one looked the Vindicare, trembling a bit as she saw the weapons. Moving her daughter behind her, she looked up, straight into his eyes.

"Wi don't wɑnt ɛni trʌbəl."

The presence of a second with the same mutation relaxed him somewhat. Instead of being a vile mutant, it was more likely that they were simply abhuman, a stable subspecies like the Orgyns or Ratlings. In fact, they looked like a textbook description of Felinids minus the fur. A coil in his stomach loosened. Warp proximity induced mutations did not pass on genetically, and varied heavily among individuals. Same for gene damaging chemicals.

He tilted his head, showed three fingers for a three day stay. The woman and child looked terrified. He was confused for a second, then realized that they had watched him stand there for roughly a minute. He wished that he had finished his training under his Lord Assassin. It had been cut short two years, right before he practiced social norms, and etiquette. He knew what to do, of course, but often found himself lacking during interactions.

He pointed to his ears, and shook his head. He hoped it conveyed that he was deaf. It wasn't a good excuse, but it was the best he could come up with. The mother nodded her head slowly. She said what he assumed to be a price.

She flinched as he took out the pickpocketed wallet, throwing what he hoped to be a reasonable amount down. Not letting him out of eyesight, she pocketed the money and handed him a key.

"θɜrd daʊn ðə raɪt."

She stared at him as he walked down the corridor.

The key fit, and opened with the door with a unoiled creak. The furnishings in his room were clean, but worn. Clean sheets covered a sagging and scuffed bed. The wallpaper was damaged in multiple places. The dying of the sunlight didn't help, giving the entire place a melancholic look. There was a closet, and a private restroom with a shower. Looking around, he found no bugs, living or electronic. There were two outlets by the bed.

It would do. He'd spent entire months in underhive sewers before. This place was heaven by comparison. It would give him a place to set up a temporary base. He knew he had to take off the armour and chest rig. It was far too conspicuous to dress casually. And he couldn't carry the pistol and rifle everywhere. While master crafted by the best Tox artisans the Imperium had, they were not concealed carry in any meaning of the word. He set them down on the bed next to his magazines and knife.

He undid the clasps on his chest piece and knee pads, and strapping off his boots. He set them aside, before stripping off the synskin undersuit, wincing as some places tore despite his care. He paused despite himself. The Mask was always the last thing to go, signifying the end of a mission. Of course, he took it off whenever infiltration required it, but always donned it prior to shooting.

The truth was, it seemed less like equipment and more like a part of him. The cerebral connections didn't help, inputting data as naturally as any nerve. That's what he told himself at least. He knew the truth. His eyes hardened.

He was getting sentimental. Emotions were dangerous, far more than any Xenos race. Emotions could compromise the most devout of men, overpower the best training. It would only be a little bit of time before he could put it on again. He pressed on the side of his face and the mask detached with a dejected hiss. His neural connection with the Masks machine spirit were severed, causing him to gasp in pain. When it ended, he was alone in his head.

After some light rewiring, he connected the synskin suit with a plug of a lamp, allowing it to begin rudimentary repairs. Tears and holes became slightly smaller. He did the same electrical work for the mask. It beeped and began hand lingered for just a moment, before he stepped into the restroom.

He rinsed off blood and sweat with a quick shower and brushed his teeth, extra careful to avoid making eye contact with the unfamiliar face that stared at him through the mirror.

Inside the closet, he found a strange white robe, which went down to his knees. It was made of a soft fabric that seemed much too absorbent. He put it on. Wearing native clothing would help disguise himself better. Also otherwise, he would be naked. He had yet to meet a non Slannesshi corrupted world where that was acceptable. He slipped the wallet into a pocket. He would ask the innkeeper for directions to the library and clothes store. He thought about it. Maybe he could ask her to buy clothes. It would save time while he learned the language.

He put the mask on when he went out again.

_︻┻┳══━一_

Paulina wasn't sure what to make of the hotel's newest guest. For one, she was glad that there was finally one. Business had been slow ever since she had refused to join the White Fang on account of her daughter Rebecca. With her husband dead, she needed to stay with her.

Since her only guests used to be Faunus, there had been very few except the occasional straggler that hadn't heard of the effective blacklist. In fact, she was about to file for bankruptcy.

He solved that by paying with an obscene amount of cash. She had assumed three days. Then he started taking out cash, and she adjusted the price for three weeks. Even if he meant three _months_ with his fingers, well. She hoped he didn't mean three years.

He was one of the most terrifying things she had ever seen. Adam Taurus had been nicer trying to convince her to allow them to use her hotel as a White Fang hideout and safe house.

She had been terrified when he entered the lobby. The only thing she heard was a confused and timid, "mister?" from her daughter from the next room over. Rebecca was an innocent thing, turning eight next summer. She couldn't recognize danger if it was pointing a gun at her face. Which effectively was what happened. Rebecca caught her mother's fear though, and Paulina pushed her behind for protection.

Paulina saw the stranger. Smelled the blood on his body. He had the posture and weaponry of an assassin. Her daughter stood there, confused. Paulina assumed the worst. It took her entire willpower to look the stranger in his eyes, eye area, and tell him that she didn't want trouble. He stood there unmoving and raised three fingers. She didn't understand. Was he her third victim?

An eternity passed.

He pointed towards his ears and shook his head. Paulina understood that he was saying he was deaf. It didn't explain the weapons, but she nodded.

Still, her heart nearly stopped as he reached for his belt. She had never been a hunter, never even dreamed of becoming one, but she recognized the shape of a massive pistol next to it.

Then he pulled out a wallet and paid in cash. Paulina's hand shook as she handed him the key. Her hands shook after he left, even when she heard the sound of a shower turning on.

Rebecca had gone off to bed some time before, leaving Paulina alone with her thoughts. No, she didn't know how to feel about him. Everything told him that he was a killer of some sorts, but he had been more than generous, if a bit cold.

A hand tapped her on the shoulder, and she jumped, falling off her chair. The stranger took a step back and stared at her. She didn't hear him coming at all. Recomposing herself, she got back up. She wasn't short, but even out of armour, he was a good head taller than her. It made it a lot harder to look him in the eyes.

His hair was still wet from a shower and he was dressed only in a bathrobe. And the mask. Did he shower in that thing? He stood there a bit with one hands held out palm up, then started fanning with the other hand.

What?

Paulina really wished she took the Remnant Sign Language course. The stranger saw that it wasn't working, then tried something else, clapping his hands together, starting both palm up and touching and meeting in the middle.

It was like something opening and closing… She thought to the earlier motion. That was like...

"Books?"

Did he want a book recommendation? That didn't make sense. Why was he asking her? The stranger shook his head and then started pantomiming grabbing something and doing the same motion from before.

"Oh- a library! You want directions to the nearest library?"

The stranger nodded once. She gave the directions, wrote it down on a piece of paper. The stranger must have wanted to go first thing tomorrow morning. He pocketed it in his bathrobe, exposing the handle of a knife.

"Anything else?

He nodded, and pointed at her, then himself.

"Come again?"

He got closer, much closer. Their faces were almost touching, and she could see the reflection of her eyes in the mask. Muscles poked out underneath the bathrobe. He reached out, pinched her dress. Then he pulled back and moved his hands up and down across his torso, like he was undressing. Her face heated up at the suggestive gesture. If it was anybody else, she would've slapped them across the face. In this case, however, she was sure it was much more literal.

"You want clothing?"

He nodded again. He handed her enough lien to buy a two piece suit stitched with golden thread and embedded with diamonds. Did he want her to buy them for him? How was she supposed to know what he liked?

She looked up to ask him that. The door closed gently. Her brain took a second to process. Holy shit, he just went out in a bathrobe! She opened the door, looked down the street both ways. There was no trace of the stranger. She looked at the lien in her hand.

No, she didn't know how to feel about the new hotel guest.

_︻┻┳══━一_

**Author's Note: And that's Chapter 3. Our Vindicare friend has a few issues, mainly with people and a thing called the Language Barrier, stronger than any Aura. Funnily enough, the Officio Assasinorum are described as slightly less xenophobic and closer to Radical than Puritan. They actually are still developing new technology and utilize Xenos weaponry which makes them better than 50% of the population. And they study Xenos biology along human things during the ten years of training. In case you didn't catch it, this particular Vindicare had to cut his short two years. This was mainly artistic liberty so I shoehorn him somewhere very particular next chapter. I swear he'll meet the main cast next chapter. :)**


	4. Kicking Names and Taking Ass

**Chapter 4**

The spoken language bore some similarities to High Gothic, with the same base sentence structure, conjugations, and vocabulary. It was only wholly different phonetically with a pronunciation style more akin to a dialect than an accent. That also happened to be the hardest part of learning any language. It didn't help that he hadn't spoken for a month prior, language centers of his brain slow on the uptake.

After three weeks of studying, he was proficient, if not completely native, capable of holding a conversation with the abhuman Paulina while they cooked together. Afterwards, he agreed to help manage the hotel while she was gone on errands.

He had also taken up conversations with Rebecca once he began walking her to school and back. She had been a great asset during the entire process, giving him someone to practice language with, and teaching him cultural norms and customs. The experience was peaceful, strangely fulfilling. He wouldn't have minded doing it for the rest of his life.

Still, something stirred in him unsatisfied. He didn't have a primary objective. His trigger finger itched. He needed something to kill, something to fight. It pulsed in him with every goodnight, every hello. Every morning, he exercised until his muscles collapsed. It helped a little. If he could, he would've hunted the black beasts, but they lived on the ground, far away from Atlas and its citizens. So he turned to his studies.

The written language had been much more difficult, bearing absolutely no resemblance to anything he had ever seen before. It was closer to the Aeldari language than his own, with arbitrary rules based on placement, order, and syllables. This took two days. Written languages had always been easier for him.

Now he was working on culture and history.

The library would have been perfect if not for...

A faint cough. He looked up from "The History of Remnant V2". The librarian tilted her head towards the clock. Quarter past three. The Vindicare's eyes narrowed. He stared at her pupils, the muscles around her eyes, looking for a sign of weakness. She stared back.

"..."

He sighed and slammed the book shut. With an exaggerated motion, he pushed himself out of the chair, walked over and set the book in front of the librarian. She scanned it without a comment. Taking it underneath his arm, he exited through a side entrance. The doors closed and locked behind him.

There was a lot of information to process today. The black beasts were called "Grimm", and came in a variety of forms, shapes, and sizes, with some being more common than others. The false wolves were appropriately named "Beowulves". The name of the birds was more theatrical, dubbed "Nevermore". And the insectoid was a "Deathstalker".

The Grimm spawned in through black pools and had been mankind's enemies since time immemorial, attacking on sight, and attracted to negative emotions. There was one other thing in the known universe that did that. Daemons. More and more points lined up. Daemons also dissipated when their physical body was destroyed, returning to the warp.

There was only one thing wrong with his theory. If the Grimm were Chaos spawn, then they were doubtless from the Formless Wastes, where none of the Four Chaos Gods held dominion. The Vindicare knew the Lesser Daemons, Greater Daemons. They had set shapes depending on the God that created them. Bloodletters, Bloodthirsters for Khorne. Nurglites, Great Unclean Ones, for Nurgle. And so on and so forth for Slaanesh and Tzeentch. They varied by specimen, of course, but there was a template, not unlike a warped and heretical Standard Construction Template. If Grimm were pure Chaos spawn, with no master, they should've been monstrous abominations with random failing limbs. The Grimm had predetermined shapes, predetermined forms.

Something or someone was controlling and summoning Grimm.

They were likely as strong, if not stronger than a Greater Daemon. The Vindicare had heard of minor Chaos Gods that held dominion over small sections of the Formless Wastes. While most rose and fell within a matter of days, some were as ancient as the ruinous powers themselves, carving out their own niche in the Warp. This thing, if it existed, was anchoring the Grimm somehow to realspace.

And the people of Remnant had no idea. They believed the Grimm to be mindless, with an instinctive drive to destroy Humans.

The Vindicare thought. He could destroy this leader. There had always been support in the past, however minimal, whether from the Officio or other branches of the Imperium. He completed the mission alone, but there had always been help of some sort, whether it be intel, bribery, or equipment. This would be different. He would have to be the intel of the Vanus, the espionage of the Callidus, and the artisans of the Officio. It was a monumental task. Close to impossible. But it would give him a purpose.

Primary Objective: Find and Destroy the Leader of Grimm.

The walk back to the Northern Nimbus Hotel was quiet. The shattered moon reflected off the buildings and bathed the streets in a silver glow. He took the byways and alleys, avoiding any main streets for fear of his face being caught on video. He wasn't sure if his arrival on the Bullhead the other month had caught any attention, but he didn't want to risk it.

When he made it to the hotel, he unlocked the door with a pair of keys that Paulina had given him. The lights were off and the curtains were drawn. He heard the faint sound of breathing a few rooms over. She must have gone to sleep already. A cold plate of food was placed in front of his room. He picked it up as he went inside.

His own room was a whirlwind of randomly placed equipment and the destroyed malformed bullets. He glanced at the Exitus Rifle on a bed stand, feeling a sense of relief. Back when he was a novitiate, the Lord Assassin would punish him for every moment he did not have it. Now, it was far more subconscious, with every moment away from his weapons being deeply uncomfortable, akin to standing in the presence of a Culuvex, or being outside without his mask on.

Truth be told, he felt naked without them. He walked over, unloaded the rifle in his hands as he sat on the bed. He dismantled and cleaned the weapon, recalibrating minute details that only he would understand. The Auspex integrated scope was a single click too loose and the nitrogen cooling sheath was a hundredth of a quarter of Terran atmospheric pressure too high. He corrected these and a hundred more as he reassembled the gun. The final piece attached with a hum, as the machine spirit went through it's own checklist.

He patted it as he set it back down. On some missions it was his only companion, and he felt a certain level of attachment, not only because the machine spirit was a reflection of himself. He turned back to his makeshift workstation. The synskin suit was mending nicely, holes already filled in. He looked it over, then set it back down. He understood enough to let it do its own thing. Like much of the equipment used by the Vindicare Clade, the base understanding of how the technology worked had been lost. Only the maintenance and replication rituals still remained.

The spy-mask was plugged into the personal vox or "Scroll" as it was called planetside. He had left it on a brute force attack.

He placed his finger on the diamond, allowed himself a rare smile as it opened up into a hololithic display. He unplugged the mask and put it on. The Scroll's machine-spirit had been biolocked to its owners fingerprint as he had suspected. The mask had simulated millions of fingerprints, only succeeding after a month by pure luck.

The Scroll was slightly more advanced than what he was used to. The hololithic displays of the Astartes and Mechanicus had always been blurry with a distinct green or sepia tint. On the other hand, the Scroll's display was crystal clear and capable of colours. It could also grow larger or smaller at will if he pulled on the white ends.

He rifled through the contacts list. The scroll belonged to one Jacques Schnee, who he assumed to be the man he pickpocketed. There were a few family members or at least the same family unit. Winter Schnee, Weiss, Whitley, why did they all start with W? He stopped at the last contact. General Ironwood. He knew that Jacques Schnee had been rich. The first day, he had accidentally given a years wages to Paulina from the wallet for room and board. The fact that Jacques Schnee had direct contact with Ironwood suggested a certain level of collaboration. He frowned. There was a reason that the Imperial Guard and Arbites did not receive pay from the planetary governor. Namely corruption.

Which led to his second task at hand. He had learnt the language to a suitable degree, and a significant quantity of history. He still needed to get through a few chapters on "Aura" but it wasn't pertinent. It had lost his attention the instant it started talking about souls. Religious, likely something like the Imperial Cult.

There were four nation-tribes, Vale, Atlas, Vacuo, Mistral. He was currently in Atlas, a militaristic kingdom situated on the northern continent of Solitas. It was the most technologically advanced, effectively creating the world's noosphere by inventing the Cross Continental Transmit System.

The textbooks were sufficient at providing civilian events from a civilian standpoint. He wanted to know military matters. General Ironwood, and by proxy, Atlas Academy would give him more information on his theorized leader of Grimm. The clock ticked four.

And he could do it tonight.

_︻┻┳══━一_

An Atlesian soldier with yellow markings on his armour yawned. It was another quiet night.

Two buildings away, the Vindicare stared at the Academy, as still as the roof he was crouched on. The synskin suit was at 90% effectiveness and on a full charge. It diffused oxygen directly into his bloodstream, removing the need to breathe. At full power, the Spy-Mask could scan the entire campus grounds in real time.

Thermal Auspex showed that the Academy was mostly empty, with a few stragglers and guards wandering the hallways. Digi-scanners showed the location of cameras and other sensors and marked their locations as it constructed a virtual map. The General's office was in one of three locations in the left tower.. The mask calculated the most likely based on the intel-inload and probability scriptures. 78% match. He nodded.

The Vindicare jumped, falling three stories, and hitting the ground with enough force to break an unaugmented man's legs. He leapt over a small wall surrounding the Academy. There were three cameras monitoring the courtyard, and he avoided all of them with careful preset movement paths. It was slow and tedious, requiring him to stand still for minutes at a time while the guards moved. It was not the first time he wished that he still had his Cameleoline cloak. The synskin could mask his form but not while moving.

The horizon was just beginning to glow with the dawn when he made it to the backside of the tower. It was a shear wall, purely vertical with no motion sensors or posted guards. They hadn't been needed. The wall was smooth ferrocrete, with no hand or foot holds, and three stories high. The Vindicare ran up for momentum and vaulted it in three steps. If any of the guards in the courtyard looked up, they would've seen a black blur.

The Vindicare hung on the frame of a window. The mask told him that there were several motion and pressure sensitive sensors inside. It obfuscated them, masking his presence for the time being. He would have to move quickly before they recovered.

Shattering the window with the palm of his hand, he stepped inside. Glass crushed underfoot. The office was in immaculate condition, with neat stacks of paper arranged next to a cogitator. There was very little decoration, save for some medals and one photo of a large black haired man with gray streaks near the temple. The Vindicare assumed it to be the General.

The lock on the cogitator was worrisome. The program was reactive, deleting all data if the input was incorrect. The mask would be unable to brute force its way in like it had with Jacques Schnee's scroll. He needed to do something far more invasive.

Walking over to the cogitator terminal, he whispered a brief apology to the machine spirit inside as he plugged in the Mask. The Clade Vanus were subtle when accessing encrypted data, weaving through security programs and datacurrents, leaving no trace of intrusion. The spy-mask of the Clade Vindicare was much more utilitarian.

Thousands of semi-sentient viruses and root programs activated. It destroyed where Vanus bypassed, eviscerating computational processes and subroutines alike. Anti-intrusion programs fought back feebly and were erased. The Mask absorbed secrets, downloaded data files. It taxes the cogitator and soon the sound of cooling fans filled the room.

The Mask beeped when it was finished, glutted with information from a ravaged digitalscape. The Vindicare unplugged it and held it at arm's length.

Murder-Cogitators were borderline heretical, derived from scrap-code used by the Forces of Chaos to corrupt and destroy machine-spirits. The Officio Assassinorum used sanitized versions disconnected from the warp, useful for bypassing security and destroying databases. Still, a more orthodox Tech Priest would've destroyed it on sight.

The Vindicare put the mask on and reeled back. Information came fast, much too fast through the cerebral studs. Synapses crackled and burned. He closed his eyes to reduce stimuli and let it wash over him, not organizing or processing the data.

"What the fuck?"

The Vindicare opened his eyes and pivoted, saw the man from the picture. General Ironwood drew a massive pistol.

In the back of his head, he noticed how stupid it looked. It had both a reloading cylinder of a primitive wheelgun and the slide of an auto pistol, with floral designs etched all around the barrel and double triggers. It was massive, looked unwieldy like if the Exitus pistol had a defective inbred cousin. But it had ammo. And the Exitus pistol did not. He had left it behind with the Rifle.

The General's finger twitched.

The Vindicare moved before the trigger pull was completed, smashing the gun aside with his left arm, while he threw a cross with his right.

Or he would have. The pistol moved, but the general still held it. Ironwood whipped out, smashing the pistol across the Vindicare's face. The Vindicare turned with the blow, rather than trying to stop it. Even so, there was enough force to throw him backwards into the desk. Paper flew into the air, and the ruined cogitator shattered on the floor. The pistol raised again.

The Vindicare was already moving. He saw his mistake earlier. The General had an augmentix right side, starting at the shoulder. The Vindicare did not have the raw strength to knock the pistol loose. The mask calculated and highlighted possible weaknesses. The Vindicare settled on the one shared by half of humanity.

He rolled forward into a leap, jabbed his fist against the General's face. It was a punch designed to disorient, prevent the General from shooting them. It served its purpose and the General lashed out blindly.

Dropping into a crouch, the Vindicare used the full force of his augmentations and the synskin suit and smashed out. It was roughly one ton of force, concentrated purely on adamantium plated knuckles. Ceramite would've shattered under the blow. The best case scenario for the General was a destroyed ischium, cracks all along the pubis and ilium, along with the complete loss of the more fleshy extremities. It should've ended the fight. The mask beeped.

General Ironwood grunted.

He didn't fall, nursing a wound that took months to heal from, and extensive physical and psychiatric therapy afterwards. He didn't drop the pistol, or even stumble.

Ironwood grunted.

And moved fast. Almost too fast to react to. The General buried his left fist in the Vindicare's gut, hard enough to feel the impact ripple through his kidneys. It knocked all the air out of his lungs and sent him flying across the room. Ironwood walked over and raised the pistol to the dazed Assassin's face. It was a moment too long.

The pistol roared.

_︻┻┳══━一_

He moved, uncoordinated but fast, felt the round brush his face. In a single motion, he threw himself out the window. A few more rounds came after him.

He had underestimated the General. The Vindicare had always thought the Assassins to be the peak of human physiology and augmentation, rivalling if not exceeding that of the Adeptus Astartes. His reactions were measured in microseconds, making decisions faster than most took to analyze the situation. The submuscular implants and augmentix were holdovers from the Dark Age of Technology, the best the Imperium could provide, outside of the Custodes. Indeed, a newly minted assassin was capable of taking on a space marine.

General Ironwood had exceeded that by far. Theories ran through the Vindicare's head as he landed. Guards fired on him with energy weapons, which he dodged easily. Did the General possess augmentix throughout his body? Some members of the Mechanicus were known for eschewing the traditional cyborg attachments for the more subtle enhancements that retained the human form.

No.

He had scanned with the spy-mask. The only biomechanical signals the General had were in the mechanical right arm and a node above the head to control it. Was it genetic enhancements? Again no. The biosigns were human, with none of the extra gametocytes and antibodies that the Astartes possessed. More subtle enhancements that the mask could not detect would not have the effect he had witnessed today.

Personal shielding? It was expensive, but could've explained the durability.

He broke into a dead sprint. Lights came on behind him, and the alarms sounded off. The Vindicare threw himself into an alleyway just as the first Bullheads went airborne. He cycled through a list. Void shielding relied on massive generators. Conversion fields turned kinetic energy into a blinding light, which there had been none of. Had there? He replayed the fight in his head. There had been a slight glow as he hit the General.

Kine-shielding. He paused, took a left. It needed focus to activate fully, but it was perfectly capable of both protecting and providing a boost to the faculties. He replayed the fight again. The mask had logged a psychic disturbance when his fist impacted. There had been one when the General arrived, and a few every time the General attacked.

Psyker.

General Ironwood was a psyker. One that used his abilities to augment his physical attributes. He wasn't necessarily a strong one, Zeta level at best, but far stronger than the more mundane abilities of a Vindicare.

The Vindicare remembered something that he read. "Aura- a manifestation of one's soul."

He had dismissed it as religious doctrine earlier, but now he knew the words had been literal.

Aura was something used by the planet's "Hunters" to protect themselves. With practice, a Hunter could project a shield to protect themselves, or infuse items for extra offensive ability. He hadn't noticed at the time, but a lot of aura's other abilities closely mirrored the abilities of a psyker. Extrasensory perception. Used by blind Astropaths. Climate protection. He had seen psykers walk through sand and snow, with both being turned away.

He felt a shiver through his spine, not only from the jump he just made. A person with Aura could unlock the Aura of someone else and according to the book, anybody on Remnant could be awakened. It echoed what he had learned about Psykers.

They were not possible to create. You could only awaken one who already had the gift.

In conclusion, everyone on the planet was a latent psyker.

It was a gruesome thought. Psykers without control of their powers were dangerous things, open conduits to the void. Their souls shined in the warp, beacons that attracted the attention of Daemons entities. In an ideal world, all psykers would be tested and destroyed on birth. Far too risky to let them live. It was not an ideal world, and the Imperium was dependent on both Navigators for safe passage through the Warp, and Astropaths for sending and receiving messages. Some psykers were even used in battle, with the Librarians of the Astartes or the entire chapter of Grey Knights.

It also told him that the planet was far away from the Ruinous Powers. There was no history of Daemon incursions in the records. A normal planet in the Imperium would have been beset and destroyed very quickly if it was composed of only latent psykers. The waves of the Warp must have been incredibly calm around Remnant.

He wouldn't know. Like many in the Clade Vindicare, he was actually psi negative, level Upsilon, being unable to detect the usage of psychic powers. It didn't offer any true immunity to warp, like the Culuvex, but it made him much more difficult to corrupt.

He slowed down, took a roundabout way to the Inn and began looking at the information he pulled from Ironwood's cogitator. Sifting through the data, he found a name of a group that protected Remnant from Grimm.

There were five members. The leader was another headmaster at Beacon. A schola located in Vale.

Ozpin.

He looked further through the data.

Salem.

The leader of the Grimm was called Salem.

_︻┻┳══━一_

Paulina watched him pack. The rifle was disassembled, placed in a backpack, along with the pistol. That had been her idea. It would stick out much too much if he wore them like he usually did.

His strange black clothes were underneath a shirt and pants that she had chosen for him.

The stranger put in the final magazine, zipped up the backpack, and slung it across his back. She didn't know if she should still call him the stranger. Paulina had known him for nearly a month now. He had helped with the dishes, managed finances, even walked Rebecca to school once he found out about the bullies.

He turned and faced her. For the first week, he had worn the mask thing exclusively, only taking it off to eat and drink inside his room. Eventually, Paulina had managed to get him to remove it. It revealed a face with deep set eyes and messy short cropped black hair. It might've even been handsome if not for the dark circles underneath the eyes, and the scars. Three parallel lines ran across the right side of his face, with the highest being on the eye, and the lowest near the chin. He looked young. Far too young to have scars and the tired look.

He bared teeth, showing white longer-than-usual canines. It looked like a pained grimace. Paulina laughed.

"Your smile still needs work."

"I'll make it my tertiary objective."

He spoke in curt sporadic bursts as if rust were clogging his words. It was better than the silence in the beginning. Paulina frowned. It had only been a month and she already couldn't imagine living without him. He managed finances, put Rebecca to bed. The words blurted out before she could stop them.

"You don't have to go."

There was a pause. A brief flicker of hope. He shook his head and slew it.

"It's no longer safe here."

"Rebecca and I-"

"Would be better off without me," he stared at a hotel room door, "And Rebecca should stop hiding."

The door opened, revealing an ashamed looking faunus. Her ears twitched as she addressed the stranger. Paulina realized that he had never given a name.

"So you're really going?"

"Yes."

Then, in a move that surprised everyone in the room, he crouched and took her in an embrace.

"Take care of your mother now."

Rebecca nodded, not trusting her voice. He got up and hugged Paulina too. Neither said a word, not when he pulled her closer, not when she kissed him, not when he opened the door.

Paulina and Rebecca never saw him again.

_︻┻┳══━一_

The Vindicare caught the first Bullhead to Vale. The decision to leave had been made the following morning when a version of his likeness was shown on national hololith along with a description of the "burglary" as they called it. Many witnesses who had seen him walk around were called up, including the officer and private from the Bullhead. It was only a matter of time before they zeroed in on his location.

So he decided to go to Vale. It was a simple decision, spurred from a plan to meet and monitor Ozpin, Goodwitch, and find out what a mai-

He yawned and blinked. Once. Twice.

It surprised him, just like the hug and what came afterwards. That hadn't been in the original plan, but he managed to improvise. He smiled. Paulina would've found the Lien in her back pocket by now.

A month had passed since he arrived on Remnant. Usually, at this time, he would have debriefed, and underwent psycho-indoctrination on Terra. This was the longest he's been awake, periods of marksman trance not included.

He yawned again and looked out the windows. The distant outline of cliffs greeted him.

_︻┻┳══━一_

**Author's note: And there goes the Atlas Arc. Here comes VALE! And our favorite four ladies. Sorry for the wait. I had to work overtime for a particularly troublesome client.**


	5. Game Plan

**Chapter 5**

_The boy sat by the only window the shuttle had, looking out on the shattered and destroyed world of Jarrius Tertiaries. Even in orbit, the damage the invaders had wrought could be seen, giant continent spanning flames tainting the air with radioactive black fumes. Of course, the boy didn't understand that the place he was going to was much worse. He only understood that death and danger and pain came from Jarrius and he was leaving and he was glad that he was leaving._

_The transport was filled with the sound of sobbing children, recently orphaned. Some hugged their knees, rocked back and forth, whimpering. A few sat slack jawed with unseeing eyes. _

_Someone talked to him. He ignored it. The voice raised, became more urgent. He ignored it again. Finally, a hand tapped him on the shoulder. _

"_What do you want?"he said in a voice filled with annoyance. He turned. A girl sat next to him dressed in a fine ornamented silken dress. Noble. He spat, a black and red clod, hitting the girl on the heel of her shiny red shoe. She didn't seem to notice and chattered on. _

"_-ere are we going?"_

"_Don't know."_

_Her voice grated on his ears and he turned away, hoping she would leave him alone. Instead, she grabbed him by the shoulder. Hive instincts reacted in an instant, and he pushed her back, drawing a shiv that he had in his sleeves. Her eyes widened at the blade, staring. She didn't scream. That surprised him. Most bluebloods screamed._

"_What's your name?" she blurted out. _

"_My what?" It wasn't what he had expected. _

"_Your name dummy. Like the one your mommy and daddy gave you!" _

_He thought about it. The Commissar had told him not to talk to anyone until he reached the Schola Progenium. The boy guessed that one little girl wouldn't hurt. And the Commissar said that if anyone asked, his name was..._

"_Nic-"_

The Vindicare woke with a jolt. There was a momentary feeling of confusion, displacement. He had been asleep for half an hour, just enough time to begin a dream cycle. Faded memories and people bounced around his mind, and he wiped them away. The door of the Bullhead was open, and he had time to make up.

The towers of Beacon were to the North, and he started to walk. It was a pleasant 28C, with a 10km/h gust from the northeast and 5% humidity. To hit a target in kilometer away, he needed to fire at a 25 degree angle, 20cm adjusting southwest 12 degrees. It was a simple calculation, even after adjusting for Remnant's slightly lower gravity.

As he walked, the farms and fields of the countryside were replaced with pavement and street lamps. Nobody gave him a second glance in the clothes Paulina have him. He looked around for a weapons shop. Atlas had extreme sanctions and regulations on firearms for civilians and the Vindicare had been incapable of procuring the materials required to manufacture Exitus ammunition. He stopped. A shattered storefront displayed magazines, the paper kind, clothing and cartridges. "From Dust to Dawn." He headed inside, stepping over pieces of glass.

Nobody was inside except an aged balding store owner who was brushing aside glass. They glared warily at him.

"Shop's closed."

He his hands out in what he hoped to be a calming gesture. "Just taking a look." The old man sighed.

As he looked around, he recalled his history lessons. Remnant had somehow completely forgotten conventional explosives and propellants. Instead the planet used Dust.

Dust was a strange substance. There were four primary types: fire, wind, water, and earth. Each had their own uses, and could be combined to create secondary or even tertiary hybrids. Dust was found naturally on the planet and powered everything from scrolls to Bullheads.

Unfortunately, Dust lost power as soon as it left Remnant's atmosphere, rendering it useless anywhere but planetside. It was a strange circumstance. The average technology level was different to Terra's own, with advanced research into robotics instead of biolinked neurology. The combat-servitors he had seen were actually semi-sentient AIs, with no biological matter whatsoever.

The Vindicare shivered. It was a dangerous line between a machine spirit and an Abominable Intelligence.

Ideas swirled in his head. For his purposes, he needed Gravity, Lightning and Fire. White, yellow and red, respectively. He identified them in their powder forms. As walked out, something glinted and caught his eye.

He picked up a cartridge, twirled it in his hand, noting the weight and dimensions. 12.7*138mm. Centerfire with a crimp indicating that it had been reloaded. A perfect round for anti material rifles.

"Who fired this?"

The old man's brow darkened in confusion at the question.

"A girl who came in yesterday. She was the one who threw a thug through that window yonder."

The Vindicare nodded and said thanks as he left. He realized that he was smiling as he walked out. It was amusing. Tens of thousands of light years away from Terra, the mighty .50 was still being used.

_︻┻┳══━一_

"Junior?"

"Ye-yeah! He'll have what you need. P-Please just let me-"

He broke the criminal's neck, letting the body drop into the pile of garbage. He had made record pace in locating the criminal element of the city in the industrial section of the city, talking up tweakers and lower gang members. There was no time to waste. Junior's bar was on the other side of the district and there were only three hours of sunlight left.

There were two elements to the Vindicare's plan. Attend Beacon, and monitor Ozpin.

It was the first half that was giving him problems. The deadline for submitting a student application passed a day before he arrived in Vale, rendering the second half of his plan much more difficult.

He was sure he had all the necessary knowledge to attend. Thirteen odd some years of training and combat does that. It was the credentials that were giving him a problem. He needed a forger, and he needed them before the start of the school year tomorrow, or he would have to wait another year.

He found himself before a worn down brick building with automat doors. The criminal had told him this is what it looked like. The piss running down their leg gave him little indication that they had been lying.

"Hey you! We're closed."

A bouncer dressed in a black suit and red sunglasses walked up. The Vindicare decked him and caught the body as it went down. He would wake up the following morning with a concussion and a broken nose. No sympathy for criminals.

The staircase down was empty. Honed senses watched, listened and even smelled for danger. It was clear.

Eventually, it opened out into a well-lit room with a bar and multiple tables where people played cards. Some hung back, dressed in a black suit and red sunglasses. Rubble was strewn across the floor, evidence of a previous fight. Everybody noticed his arrival. Some reached for barely concealed blades and pistols.

"I need Junior."

"Why?" A clean shaven man wearing a top hat and carrying a pistol. They were across the room. Three centiseconds for him to span.

"Business."

The man stared at him. The others surrounded him, blocked off his exit.

"How'd you get in?"

"There wasn't anybody at the door."

The man swore about firing "that good for nothing". The Vindicare offered more information.

"Need a transcript. Heard this was the place to get one."

"You another one of those that wants to get into Beacon?"

There was another? Interesting.

"Yes."

"You're too late. Semester starts tomorrow."

"Let me worry about that."

He flashed a wallet, just long enough to see the lien inside.

The man jerked his head. Another, a subordinate, rushed off. "Wait here."

The henchmen hung around him but sheathed their weapons. Some sat back down but kept a wary lookout. He wondered if they had aura. Four seconds in a fight if they didn't.

A bearded man walked into the room. He wore a similar outfit to the others, but without sleeves, and a white undersuit instead of black. He was also massive, close to the size of an Astartes. Two flashy teenage girls flanked him, one on each side. Sisters, possibly twins, by their matching faces. Whores by their outfits. One red and one white. The massive man smiled and then motioned to the bar. The Vindicare moved but didn't sit down. Junior went behind the counter.

"Sorry about the mess. We had a rowdy customer the other day."

The Vindicare nodded.

"Heard you were looking for a transcript."

A single nod.

"Not much of a conversationalist, are you?"

He shook his head. Junior laughed like a roaring bear.

"What's with the mask? Come on now, there's no need to be afraid. We're all friends here."

"As soon as possible, if you can."

"Beacon, huh? I can get it done by today, of course, but it will cost you."

"I can pay."

Junior laughed again, a single burst. The man's flippancy was beginning to annoy him. Junior was a man who thought he was king of the world. They either died young or lived to become the boss. Each gang had one, usually the former. Junior was one of rare latter..

"I doubt it. Everything that you can shake out of your little piggy bank? A few hundred? "

The henchmen and twins laughed at their boss's joke. The Vindicare took a deep breath and suppressed the urge to throttle them all.

"Ten thousand, all paper."

He took it out of his wallet and laid it down on the bar. The henchmen shuffled at the sight of that much money. Junior's smile dimmed for a second and then returned. Junior didn't pocket it. The red twin came and started flipping through them one by one, painfully slow.

"It's all there," she said in a quiet voice. Junior nodded at a henchman. After a brief wait, they brought up a little drive, barely the size of his thumb.

The Vindicare took it in his hand and scanned it with the mask. Junior was talking when he finished absorbing the information.

"-have to give a photo and name, but it'll work. Just give an excuse for the gap year."

"Are the teachers rea-?"

"Completely. And they'll answer if they're contacted. Go on and on about how great you were in their class."

The Vindicare had to give it to him. It was an excellent forgery. Attended a prep academy but all the records destroyed when the Grimm attacked a year back. Above average grades, three letters of recommendation, and no unusual extracurriculars.

"Where are the applications for Beacon held?"

"Probably Ozpin's office?"

"Where is that?"

"Right under Beacon's tower. Can't miss it." Junior lauged. "Though you'll have a hell of a time making it there. Schools bustling with students and teachers."

The Vindicare nodded. He had another route planned. The matter was taken care of. He looked around the room. There were ten henchmen, the twins, and Junior. Each was a walking security risk, a possible leak. His hand dropped to his sides. The knife and pistol hung to his left and right. He had converted a rifle magazine earlier for use. And it would let him test a theory.

"Do you have Aura?"

"Yea-"

The blade was already moving, a vicious horizontal strike angled to decapitate. It smashed into Junior's neck, hitting the skin but not cutting. Junior's head twisted from the momentum of the strike, and he sprawled backwards. The Vindicare vaulted the counter.

He reached over and pressed the knife to Junior's neck. The dissonance field in the knife crackled, permeating the air with the smell of ozone. Aura flickered at the points of contact. He applied more force. A steady pressure kept the blade from going any further. Junior growled threw the Vindicare off him.

He repositioned in the air and landed on two feet. The Exitus pistol came out, faster than the henchman could track. He aimed, fired.

The bullet struck Junior straight in the temple. A conventional bullet would be turned away, deflected by the kine-shielding of Aura. Instead, anti-phase runes and spinning quantum flyers punctured the energy walls, collapsing it at the point of impact. Shell-Breaker.

The bullet continued.

Bone and brain matter exploded into a cloud. Junior's body took another step, not understanding, before collapsing. Henchman stared bug-eyed, mouths open in disbelief.

Theory tested. Shell-Breaker worked against aura. The Vindicare walked over, pocketed the money he had handed earlier. A sudden shriek by his side got his attention.

The green twin was staring, wide eyed. It was the red twin that screamed. The Vindicare addressed the crowd.

"Leave."

They stumbled over one another in their haste. The twins were the last to go, throwing glances over their shoulder.

Junior's body bled onto the floor.

_︻┻┳══━一_

Climb a tower in pitch darkness, sneak into Ozpin's office, input falsified transcripts into the records, hope throughout all this that Ozpin or the other faculty do not see you, and then climb back down. Simple really.

He grabbed onto a ledge that barely extended past the first joint of his finger and pulled himself up. The skin on his fingertips chafed through the synskin. The stone crumbled under his other foot and for a brief moment, his entire weight was held by his fingers. Tendons threatened to tear, as he scrambled for another foothold. He found one and sighed in relief.

The rest of the climb had been uneventful, only nearly falling three times at the bulb where the tower angled outwards. He had hugged the walls, with there being just enough of a curvature to allow him to inchworm his way around. The sun was beginning to set after he made it to the window. It was unlocked. He let himself in after a brief scan.

There was a cogitator near a bookshelf and he sat down behind it. Strangely enough, Ozpin did not believe in passwords and it unlocked without any further action. Navigating the database didn't take half as long as he thought it would. It was all very clearly organized and with a folder titled "Incoming Freshman". A list of names linked to transcripts, letters of recommendation and essays. He inputted his near the middle of the end, where it was likely to be overlooked.

If by chance someone checked, they would find a student above average academically. Good enough to attend, but not a prodigy by any definitions of the word. He had edited the file so that he had no extracurriculars for relative freedom outside of classes.

He added a picture of his face he had taken earlier.

And the name. Names were weird, often symbolic or otherwise cultural. In any case, V-825-09KL would not work. He had selected one after some consideration, someone who was already in Vale's database. The Vindicare finished typing.

_︻┻┳══━一_

Ironwood paced up and down his relocated office. An untouched cup of cooled coffee lay on the desk.

The technicians had swept the room and found nothing, no DNA, no fingerprints. A simple database search had found no other incidents involving a black suited figure. The closest was an incident a few years back involving a latex enthusiast.

There were no other leads. Even after the television program, only two witnesses came up to testify. One Major Nell Carnelian, and Private Rick Greene, and a librarian. The barest outline of a story was beginning to form. Major Carnelian had found them in the Grimm infested forest, believed him to be a Specialist, and brought them to the city. aq2

Two weeks later, they were found in a public library. They came in as soon as the library opened, and left at closing time. At first, they checked out language books, before moving onto history. By either chance, or intentionally, they had managed not to get their face filmed along the way, always entering and leaving through the side doors and turning away at the checkout counter. The librarian had described him as a male with black hair and eyes and a distinctive scar. That narrowed it down, but not by much.

Snippets of videos were dredged out. Some through social media, a few through street CCTV. Ironwood sat down and brought up the clearest photo on his new computer. The photo was blurry but three lines that ran down his right side were visible.

Ironwood sighed and turned on his scroll. He dialed a number. Three rings later, the other end answered. It was a secure line. The room was free of any recorders. Hence, he didn't mince words.

"The location of the maidens has been compromised."

A pause as the other party absorbed the information.

"How?"

"Someone broke into my office and copied all the information on my computer. It's encrypted, but..."

"Do you know where the perpetrator is now?"

Ironwood looked at the photo and the location it was taken. It was at Atlas Airport, and Bullheads could be seen in the background. The technicians had scrubbed through hundreds of hours of video. Flight 617. Atlas to Vale. Specifically Vale City.

"I think he's headed to Beacon."

_︻┻┳══━一_

The Vindicare sighed and stretched his aching body. Junior's body had been incredibly heavy and he had to carry it one kilometre while remaining hidden from scrying windows.

Afterwards, he had spent the rest of the night cleaning up the bar. The bullet had exited the other side and sprayed brain onto the walls. It was unsightly and it would start to smell bad soon. He was sure that his display had scared off the criminals, but he bolted the store down and barred the door anyways. He also hung a "Closed" sign outside for good measure.

It was well into morning when he finished and boarded an airship to Beacon. He could walk, but really **really** didn't want to. The airship was large, with large holoslate windows and an open air observation deck in the front. The students provided their own weapons, so he wore his synsuit underneath normal clothes, with the Exitus rifle slung across his back.

All around, teenagers buzzed with excitement. He stood next to a window and ignored them all. The slight subconscious wrongness of his null aura helped.

"Oh, I can't believe my baby sister is going to Beacon with me! This is the best day ever!" He turned at the sound of a loud voice, and caught a blonde hugging a young girl with red tipped hair. Both looked strange for students attending a combat academy, dressed in flashy clothes that matched their hair.

A muffled reply came back from Red. Blonde let go and bounced on her feet. "But I'm so proud of you!"

"Really sis, it was nothing." They were sisters. He filed the information away.

"What do you mean? It was incredible! Everybody at Beacon is going to think you're the bee's knees."

_Bee's... knees_? That had to be the strangest expression the Vindicare had ever heard. And what exactly did Red do?

"I don't want to be the bee's knees, okay? I don't want to be any kind of knees! I just want to be a normal girl with normal knees."

Blonde frowned. "What's with you? Aren't you excited?"

"Of course I'm excited. I just…" she sighed, "I got moved ahead _two years._ I don't want people to think I'm special or something."

He understood that situation, if not what Red was feeling. His training had been cut short two years by the sudden loss of twenty Officio Assassinorum agents during the Thirteenth Black Crusade. A rare feeling of irritation passed through him. He had to scale a tower to get admitted and Red was complaining about getting it done for her.

His line of thought was cut by the activation of a news channel. "The robbery was led by nefarious criminal Roman Torchwick, who continues to evade authorities." The hololith displayed a picture of a roughed up orange haired man wearing a white and red coat and black undershirt. Conditioned fury flowed through the Vindicare at the sight of a criminal. He made a mental note of the face. He would be a side-target.

"-back to you Lisa."

"Thank you Cyril." A woman with bright lavender hair, appropriately named Lisa Lavender, was projected. "In other news, this Saturday's Faunus Civil Rights protest turned dark when members of the White Fang disrupted the ceremony." The hololith changed to show pictures of a crowd with extra mammalian ears and other extremities. The Vindicare scoffed. He could tolerate their existence, but disturbing the peace was unacceptable. They were sub-human. White Fang…

He had found out that they were a terrorist organization. He would research and deal with it acoordingly.

"The once peaceful organization has now disrupted-" The newscast cut off abruptly, replaced by a mature blonde woman who stood with a posture that suggested confidence and discipline. The stern expression on her face reminded the Vindicare of his first drill abbot at the Schola Progenium. Unlike Sergeant Renus who could only be found in uniform, she was dressed as strangely as the two girls on the airship, with a ragged purple cape flowing behind her.

The younger blonde spoke. "Who's that?"

"My name is Glynda Goodwitch." The Vindicare had heard her name from Ironwood's cogitator. She was one of Ozpin's group. He would have to watch himself around her. Ironwood also had some documents and photos of a much more risque nature concerning Mrs. Goodwitch. The two had been in a relationship at some point.

"You are among a privileged few who have received the honor of being selected to attend this prestigious academy!"

A flicker of amusement. The Vindicare received his honor from a recently deceased criminal. He wondered what Red did to be admitted.

"Our world is experiencing an incredible time of peace-"

He frowned at this bit. Peace was a lie, a promise long since destroyed by Horus, the archtraitor. For ten thousand years has the Imperium endured since, locked in wars with the foul Xenos races, heretics beyond number, and far more insidious forces. Since the thirteenth Black Crusade, the situation had only gotten worse, with the Imperium split in two by the Great Rift, a massive warp storm created by the fall of Cadia.

The Officio Assassinorum was stemming the tide with far more agents than had ever been active. The Vindicare had embarked on a hundred missions in a single Terran year alone.

"-and as future Huntsmen and Huntresses, it is your duty to uphold it. You have demonstrated the courage needed for such a task, and now it is our turn to provide you with the knowledge and the training to protect our world."

A noble task. It was reminiscent of the first speech given to fresh cadets at a Schola Progenium, but with less executions.

She disappeared..

"Oh wow!" Red said. "Look, you can see Signal from here." Students crowded around the windows. All of Vale city could be seen, a sprawling urban city, one of over a billion in the Imperium.

The acrid smell of vomit filled the room. A blonde boy threw up into his hands, bumped into him and started running one direction. The bathroom was the other way.

"Guess the view isn't for everyone." The blonde rolled her eyes.

"It was a nice moment while it lasted."

The Vindicare agreed mentally, and brushed off a speck of vomit from his shoulder. He prepared for the task at hand.

"Oh, Yang, gross! You have puke on your shoe!"

The blonde rubbed her shoe against the floor.

"Grossgrossgrossgross-"

"Ge-Getawayfrommegetawayfromme-"

It was the Vindicare's turn to roll his eyes. Any hiver over the age of ten would've seen enough blood and bodily fluids to fill a bathtub. And these were prospective Hunters?

_︻┻┳══━一_

**Authors Note: Been super busy with a case where I had to go to China. Literally couldn't work over there since google and suite are blocked. For those of you saying the Vindicare was weak last chapter, it was because he didn't want to hurt General Ironwood. And even though we've only seen a little bit of it, I would assume General Ironwood is a capable warrior as well as leader. **


	6. Blondes and Redheads

**Chapter 6**

The academy was much more impressive in the day than it had been the night before. It wasn't the largest school he had ever seen, that honour belonging to the Clade Vindicare Temple with all its ten kilometres of firing ranges, but it was definitely one of the more beautiful. It was elegant, but not excessive, with far better taste than the palaces of some nobles.

The Vindicare felt a slight sense of pride how tall the tower he scaled was. He quelled it immediately, of course. Officio Assassinorum agents were immune to mortal faults such as hubris. Hundred meters climb at least.

Completely immune.

The campus grounds were a small city in their own right, with shopping, restaurants, and recreation centers clustered around the educational facilities. The Vindicare saw signs on a map pointing to an armoury, and he noted its location for future use.

The sisters had walked on ahead, with Red looking around with a stupid expression on her face. The blonde one or "Yang" as Red called her, said something while pulling on Red's hood. Red shook her head, and reached towards a large metal box on her back.

He blinked once as it transformed into a massive crimson scythe almost twice as tall as she was. She swung it around casually. Aura was a warp of a strength enhancer. Interestingly enough, the scythe had a receiver for a magazine. As he walked closer, he could tell that it fed directly into the shaft. Space for five rounds, maybe six. Calibre was…

Fifty.

Was she the one from the shop the other day? That must've been how she got admitted. He passed by and caught a snippet of conversation.

"-tually my friends are here gotta go catch up k see ya bye!"

Yang spoke as fast as a derailing mag-train and disappeared inside a cloud of talking students, bumping into Red in the process. Red span once, then collapsed into a luggage cart. A flicker of amusement passed through him as he continued ahead. The Armoury was in the left wing and he could check it ou-

Something exploded behind him.

He pivoted instantly, turning behind him, just in time to catch a glass vial in trajectory with his head. He looked at it. It had been launched by the explosion. As the smoke cleared, it revealed two blackened figures in the center of it. Red was twiddling her fingers, while another was yelling at her. He recognized the distinct skin colour immediately.

Weiss Schnee. Daughter of Jacques.

He turned and hid his face, on the off chance that she had seen him before. What was she doing here instead of Atlas Academy? Out of the corner of his eye he saw a black figure strut forwards, say a few words, and leaving. Weiss made a sound of indignation, than stomped off. After a few moments Red collapsed in an over-dramatic fashion. A mirthless smile broke out as he walked over. His first day at the Schola Progenium hadn't been much better.

_︻┻┳══━一_

The armoury was perfect. A massive replicator was in the center, complete with an interactive hololithic that he assumed would let him print out a design of his choice. He scrolled through, noting the choice of mechano-servos and cartridges with small descriptions extolling their benefits. He printed a custom cartridge, dimensions similar to the size of his own. The machine whirred, before dispensing it a moment later with a clunk.

He picked it up. The metal was thin, much too thin to be ceramite. The light weight indicated that it was unlikely to be adamantium either. He tapped the cartridge experimentally. Metal, in any case.

The casings of his Exitus Rifle were an auramite alloy, necessary to withstand the tremendous pressures of the initiary primer. He went back and looked through the propellant section, searching by highest maximum detonation velocity. They were all hybrids, consisting of multiple types of Dust with the percentages of composition. The strongest had a density of 1.43 grams per ml and a detonation velocity of 5,500 meters per second.

Additionally, Dust was an inefficient propellant, with significant quantities being ejected as unignited particles. Not similar to the ancient black powder of old, but capable of supersonic speeds.

Weaker than those used in his by a significant fraction.

He sighed. For maximum effectiveness, he would have to distill his own octanitrocubane. It was a rather dangerous affair. The synthesis process was unstable, to say the least. He absentmindedly scratched a scar on his torso. The left side of his fingers throbbed where they had been destroyed a few years prior.

An intercom system crackled to life, telling all first-year students to report to the training arena.

Fortunately, it was right next door. As he stepped into the open space, he saw Red and Yang talking to Weiss Schnee who was gesturing to a pamphlet she held in her hand. The room was crowded with prospective students, and he was jostled around. As he tried to rebalance, he smashed his forehead into the vomiting blonde from the airship, sending them tumbling to the floor. He offered a hand to the blonde.

"Thanks," they said.

He paused for a brief moment, introducing himself.

"Grey Titus."

It was the name he had put down. It would help to integrate with the students.

"Jaune Arc."

They shook hands. "Grey" looked at Jaune. He was wearing a chestplate that did not cover the neck or most of the vitals. The well-worn hilt of a longsword hung in a scabbard by the side.

"Know anything about what's going on?" he asked.

"Nope. ]I was lost until a moment ago."

Weiss's voice carried over the crowd, "Yeah! And we can paint our nails and try on clothes and talk about cute boys, like tall, tan, and scarred right there!"

Jaune nudged him. "Dude, I think she's talking about you."

"Hmm?"

His attention was ahead. Glynda Goodwitch stood on the stage, a white haired man next to her. The hair told the Vindicare that they were at least fifty, but the man had none of the middle aged softness that came with it, with a strangely wrinkle free face. If he didn't know better, he would've thought them to be a noble who was a chronic user of rejuvenat, well into their second century. He knew otherwise.

Ozpin, Headmaster of Beacon Academy. Leader of the group against Salem.

Perpetual.

Ironwood's report indicated that Ozpin was well into a thousand years of age. While it did not state the exact type, it was fair to assume a form of immortality, whether by resurrection, regeneration or plain invulnerability.

A dangerous man, by all accounts.

"I'll keep this brief," Ozpin pushed up the strange spectacles on his face as he said this. "You have traveled here today in search of knowledge, to hone your craft and acquire new skills, and when you have finished, you plan to dedicate your life to the protection of the people."

As the Emperor wills it.

"But I look amongst you, and all I see is wasted energy, in need of purpose, direction."

The Vindicare narrowed his eyes and nodded. A mind without purpose will wander in dark places.

"You assume knowledge will free you of this, but your time at this school will prove that knowledge can only carry you so far. It is up to you to take the first step."

Ozpin walked off the stage as students whispered amongst themselves. Goodwitch stepped forward. The crowd silenced as she spoke.

"You will gather in the ballroom tonight; tomorrow, your initiation begins. Be ready. You are dismissed."

A strange display. It was neither an encouraging introduction designed to welcome initiates, nor was it an abusive tirade designed to stoke anger and willpower. It told him nothing about the Headmaster, nor did it prepare him any better for Beacon. In the meantime, he would ask around. Perhaps Jaune knew more about the Headmaster.

"I'm a natural blonde, you know!"

Or not.

_︻┻┳══━一_

As the sun set, the Vindicare wandered through the hallways, noting the location of the lockers and classrooms. It would be a busy day tomorrow, and while he did not know what Initiation entailed, it would serve to be prepared.

As he walked towards a corner, he caught a reflection in the shining floors of someone tall, a stern expression and blonde hair. Goodwitch. He cursed. This would be a bad time to meet her. While she had not explicitly banned leaving the ballroom, there would be questions and unwanted attention.

"Hello? Hey, you there!"

He pretended not to hear, quickened his pace, and turned a corner. As soon as he was out of direct sight, he sprinted and made another left, glancing behind him.

With no sign of Goodwitch, he relaxed. He had half a mind to reveal himself and their shared purpose, but he feared revealing too much and arousing suspicions on how he had acquired the knowledge. And he had no doubt that Ironwood had already relayed the details of their encounter, souring the situation further. He sighed. The Atlas encounter was purely due to his own boredom, and could've been arranged far better.

He bumped into someone tall, dressed in black and green.

His stomach dropped and his heart skipped a beat. As he looked up, he met the green eyes of Ozpin himself. His eyes dropped and he mumbled a response.

"Sorry, Headmaster."

Ozpin smiled. "My apologies to you, young man." His gaze fell onto the gun on the Vindicare's back, before resting on the young assassin's face.

"Grey Titus if I'm not mistaken?"

"No, Headmaster."

"That is an unusual weapon," Ozpin said, nodding towards the Exitus rifle, " I do not recognize the calibre."

The Vindicar calculated escape routes. He could go back the way he came, and face Goodwitch. Or he could go in the opposite direction. A quick jab to the throat would slow the Headmaster down, despite Aura. How had he been discovered? The transcripts had been perfect, there had been no witnesses, and he had altered the date of entry so that…

He forced his own heartbeat to slow down. He hadn't been discovered.

Ozpin was likely one of those headmasters that memorized the names of each of his students. He smiled scars on his face itched with the motion.

"I make each shell myself, Headmaster."

"That must be quite the challenge."

It was.

"Not at all, sir." He paused. "Well, I got to go to the ballroom now, so…"

He took a step, felt the Headmaster's eyes on the back of his head. He barely made it three more.

"Mr. Titus?"

The Vindicare tensed up, calculated combat strategies, trajectories. It was point blank range and he did not need to-

"The ballroom is the other way."

_︻┻┳══━一_

It was nighttime and portable bedrolls had been provided and laid out on the ground. Many were already occupied, with inhabitants deciding to take an early night for Initiation tomorrow. He sat in one near the side, eyes open. He would not need sleep for another seventy-and five hours. If he did sleep, the maximum was a half hour cycle before he woke up. It was a fruitless endeavor.

If left to his own devices, he would've assembled and reassembled the Exitus rifle and pistol repeatedly, but they were stored in the locker room.

"It's like a big slumber party!"

"I'm not sure Dad would approve of all the boys though..."

He could hear the faint voices of Yang and Red over on the girl side. A pair of roughhousing boys rolled past him, almost hitting him in the face. Jaune was sitting next to him, dressed in a blue loosely fitting bodysuit. It wasn't the most unusual thing he had seen today, but it was definitely one of the least aesthetically pleasing. He shuddered and tried to erase the sight. His eidetic memory seared the image deeper.

The blonde flopped down, asleep before his head hit the ground. Lucky.

Like a light, more and more people went to sleep, until eventually it was just him and a girl across the room who was reading a book. Curiously, they kept their bow on even to bed. She saved her page, then blew out a set of candles. The lights overhead went out at the exact same time, sending the room into darkness.

He had planned to explore the school, but his earlier experience with Ozpin would've made two incidents in the first day if he was caught. And he had caught sight of two surveillance auspex in the corners of the room. No doubt so that the teachers could monitor the students.

He lay down and closed his eyes, slowing his breathing and heartbeat to match the patterns of sleep. Soon, he had entered the marksman's trance. It wasn't true sleep. His mental processes slowed, but refused to shut off completely. It was the purpose of the trance, to maintain the body in hibernation, while the mind stayed aware, ready to act act at any moment.

Jaune grumbled in his sleep and the Vindicare snapped back awake.

It would be a long night.

_︻┻┳══━

Slightly before dawn, he manually released biostasis. His heart quickened from the one beat a minute it had adopted, sending a warm wave of fresh blood circulating throughout. He let out an hour old breath. He blinked twice to rewet his dry eyes.

The other students were still asleep and he was careful not to wake them The nearby cafeteria was was completely empty, save for a lone cafeteria lady who was setting up.

There was more food than the Vindicare had ever seen before, with a variety of exotic fruits, meats, and beverages he had only heard about in history slates. He stacked his plate with the things he judged to be the least likely to be poisonous, including fruits and slightly stale baked goods. Superior to concentrated nutrition sludge at any rate. The meal was finished with a cup of recaff.

He sipped it idly as the first students began to trickle in.

"Howdy!" A voice screamed in his ear. He flinched, almost attacking the source of the sound. A girl with orange hair sat down next to him with a plate of pancakes. She waved over a man with black hair and strange pink eyes. He shook off a feeling of discomfort. Eye colour was one of the most mutatable traits.

He nodded. Pink eyes nodded back. Orange hair began talking.

"I'm Nora, and that's my best friend Ren! We're together but not together-together and oh my god I'm so excited to-"

Ren reached out a hand. "Lie Ren."

He took it. "Grey Titus."

Nora rambled on, oblivious to the fact that neither were listening.

"Sorry. She's always like this."

"I see." The Vindicare was beginning to develop tinnitus from Nora's incessant chatter. He continued drinking his recaff. The two began talking amongst themselves, with Nora not pausing and Ren answering some questions with short responses.

"Hey Grey!"

Jaune waved, finally out of his terrible onesie. He somehow managed to slip when walking over, but rebounded quickly. Ren turned towards the Vindicare and raised an eyebrow.

"Friend of yours?"

"In a way."

The Vindicare waved back. Jaune rushed through the buffet line and sat down beside him, obviously excited. After some time, he was joined by Red and Yang.

"Grey, these are Ruby and Yang."

Red was Ruby. Noted.

"Pleased," he said.

"Ruby and Yang, this is Grey."

Yang looked him up and down in a strangely intimate gesture. He would've blushed if he wasn't on suppressants. Instead, he stared at her blankly. She smiled and winked. Jaune interrupted the moment.

"Yang here was just telling me how much Weiss was talking about me! In fact, there she is right there. Wish me luck!"

The Vindicare tried to give a word of warning but failed as Jaune sprang to foot with more agility than the Vindicare had assumed he had. He looked at Yang with a that's cruel expression.

She shrugged her shoulders in a not her problem gesture. Then her face lit up and she grabbed Ruby, dragging her in front of the Vindicare.

"This is my sister Ruby~"

"Hello Ruby."

"H-hi."

He offered a hand and she looked at it without taking it. It dropped to the table.

"So."

These two were related? They were completely different in personality, and looked nothing alike. He'd seen Catachans and Cadians with more in common. A fitting comparison with the fact that Yang had violet eyes. Though Ruby was hardly a Space Marine Lite, a full foot shorter than him. He stood.

"I'll be heading off now. See you all at Initiation."

He brushed his teeth in the nearby restroom before heading over to collect his gear. He strapped down his ammunition over his civvies. The Exitus Rifle went behind his back, and the knife went into its scabbard. He attached the mask to his leg but didn't wear it just yet.

There were three stims remaining in his leg compartment He wasn't sure what Intiation was, but he didn't want to risk his life. He closed the locker, and saw Jaune attempting to flirt with Weiss. Emperor, he had seen better in the half throne-gelt porn slates found in the discount aisle on Ultramar. Strangely enough, a fiery red-head standing next to them was taking interest.

"Would all first years please report to Beacon Cliff for Initation?" Glynda's voice came online over the PA. "Again all first year students report to Beacon Cliff immediately.."

He turned at the sound of an impact. Jaune was pinned through his clothes by a red and gold spear. The Redhead pulled it out as she walked by, saying a few words. Jaune collapsed onto the floor.

The Vindicare approached, if only because the exit was that direction. He pulled Jaune to his feet.

"Thanks."

"Having some trouble there lady-killer?"

Yang and Ruby approached.

"I don't get it," Jaune said with a sigh, "My dad says that all women look for is confidence. Where did I go wrong?"

"Snow Angel probably wasn't the best start."

The Vindicare raised an eyebrow as he continued past them. Jaune was one of his best friends thus far and only shown the ability to be wholly incompetent in social interactions.

Like the saying said, "Blessed is the mind too small for doubt."

"What?" Jaune looked at him.

"Nothing."

They found themselves on a cliff overlooking a forest that stretched for kilometres in every direction, standing on metal plates that were slightly angled outwards. Jaune fidgeted to his right, while Ruby stared off into the forest to his left.

Ozpin broke the oppressive silence. "For years, you have trained to become warriors, and today, your abilities will be tested in the Emerald Forest."

Glynda continued. "Now, I'm sure many of you have heard rumors about the assignment of "teams." Well, allow us to put an end to your confusion. Each of you will be given teammates... today."

"What?" Ruby said.

Ozpin picked up again. These teammates will be with you for the rest of your time here at Beacon. So it is in your best interest to be paired with someone with whom you can work well."

Long term teams? Used by the Tempestus Scions to foster camaraderie among the Progena. It worked, but often decreased effectiveness when said teammates died.

Ruby made a sound of dismay.

"That being said, the first person you make eye contact with after landing will be your partner for the next four years."

Now that was interesting. Partners were dangerous, creating bonds that may triumph over affiliation or loyalty to the Emperor.

He had one once.

They were the final test during Initiation day for those who sought to enter the ranks of the Commissariat, as he had learned. Did they do something similar here?

"After you've partnered up, make your way to the northern end of the forest. You will meet opposition along the way. Do not hesitate to destroy everything in your path... or you will **die.**"

Ozpin put an emphasis on the final word. Jaune made a cross between a whimper and a laugh.

"You will be monitored and graded through the duration of your initiation, but our instructors will not intervene."

Almost nostalgic.

"You will find an abandoned temple at the end of the path containing several relics. Each pair must choose one and return to the top of the cliff. We will regard that item, as well as your standing, and grade you appropriately. Are there any questions?"

Jaune raised his hand.

"Good. Now take your positions!"

The students took to strange poses, more theatrical than pragmatic. He adopted a crouch and drew the knife, resting the weight on his hind leg.

"Sir?"

Weiss flew into the air, propelled by high powered hydraulics.

"So this landing strategy thing? Uh. Wha-what is it? You're, like, dropping us off or something?"

They had been given a brief run-down earlier, to prepare a landing strategy for Initiation. It seemed that Jaune had not paid attention.

"No. You will be falling."

"Oh… So, did you hand out parachutes?"

Nora cackled as she was launched. Ren followed closely behind her. Two more to go. The Vindicare braced his weight behind his hind leg.

Yang winked and put on a pair of sunglasses. She cheered as she was launched.

Then Ruby. And him.

He propelled forward. The blood rushed through his body, fast enough to activate both his hearts.

Initiation had begun.

_︻┻┳══━一_

**Long Author's note: This chapter took a while, not only because of all the dialogue or the fact that I got four calls when I was writing it. There's a sort of a crossroads here, from where I first planned out the story, and how it continues. Originally, it was going to be much more of a rom com, with the Vindicare being the stereotypical oblivious protagonist. He would impress Ruby with the Exitus Rifle, Yang with his coolness, Weiss by his eloquence, and finally Blake by his stealthiness. As I wrote though, I had another idea, a much better story that made more sense thematically for both universes. So I rewrote the whole thing. From this point on, the new storyline is going to become a lot more grim and dark. I still got about 10,000 words of the rom com and can publish it if you guys want, but I believe this new storyline will be better. Alright thanks for reading this and see you next week**


	7. Tits and Space Marijuana

**Chapter 7**

Each and every Assassin from every Clade could survive a fall from terminal velocity naked, though you'd be hard pressed to find one without his protective gear, and in a situation where they hurtled unpowered to the ground. Especially not the Vanus.

Frakking Infocytes.

He'd never seen one on a field operation.

The air whistled past his ears as the Vindicare arced through the sky. He was much heavier than the girls, adamantium skeleton and genmod muscles weighing him down. As such, he was propelled much less far than the others.

His arms trailed by his sides as the treetops rushed towards him. It looked fast, felt fast, was fast. He wondered if this was what his bullets felt.

He jammed the knife into a tree as it went past, slowing his fall by a fraction. Leaves and branches scraped his unprotected face. He hit the ground sideways, spreading the impact across his shoulders and torso, shielding the rifle from harm. He did everything right, as he had been trained. The synskin hardened around the points of impact, but did little for the momentum.

He bounced once, skidded and finally stopped as he smashed into a rock headfirst.

Everything soft felt ruptured. Everything hard felt broken. A pained wheeze exited his lips and mixed with blood from his forehead.

But he was alive.

He rolled to the side, injected a stimm, and got to his feet, pain coursing through his body. It faded with every passing second as his musculature rebuilt itself. Miniscule fractures in his bones set. He scraped the already congealed blood off.

He swept his surroundings with the rifle, listening and watching for Grimm. Sensing none, he reached down to his belt and put on the Mask. The familiar overlay relaxed him somewhat, as the built in sensors scanned his surroundings. As he had suspected, there were cameras in key locations, covering much of the forest. But not all of it. He took the mask off after some hesitation. Ozpin should not see him in it.

He took an educated guess, following the line of cameras heading West.

He made good time, avoiding cameras and Grimm where he could.

Leaves and branches crunched behind him. He dropped to a crouch. A tall and well-set figure walked past him, humming a song as they swung a mace around. Capable, if lacking in the stealth department. They would do for a partner.

He tapped the figure on the shoulder.

They pivoted, swinging the mace in a direct trajectory with his face. He leaned back, dodging it by little more than a millimeter. The knife went up into a defensive position. Was this student insane?

He eyed the figure wearily. They paused and lowered the mace.

"Damn, I was hoping to meet up with Russel. I guess we're partners than?"

It was a nonchalant voice. Much too nonchalant for almost murdering a fellow student. The mace went back on their shoulder. The boy offered a hand. The Vindicare took it.

"Cardin Winchester."

"Grey Titus."

Violet eyes watched him underneath auburn hair. Cardin was large, and had a few centimeters on him. The handshake was firm, and too tight, trying to gauge his strength. The Vindicare returned the favour, smiling internally as the blood drained from Cardin's face.

"Pleased."

He let go before anything was damaged. Cardin took his hand back quickly and shook it. The Vindicare cracked his knuckles. Augmentix. Effective in competitions fueled by testosterone.

"Temple's to the west. We can make it in five minutes if we continue at this pace."

He started walking. Now that he had a partner, he could delegate most combat to them, and prevent any outstanding achievements in Ozpin's eyes, as well as save ammunition.

The two walked in silence, Cardin nursing his hurt pride beside him. As they walked, they joined up with two more, a diminutive boy with dyed green hair spiked down the middle of his head, and someone else with greased back turquoise-grey hair. Russel Thrush and Sky Lark, respectively. He didn't like either of them. Russel reminded him of a hive rat and Sky a guttersnipe who would stab you in the back as soon as you turned around.

He trailed behind with the other three talking amongst themselves and ignoring him. He was fine with that. Whenever a Grimm showed up, he would step to the side, allow Cardin to handle it with a massive crushing blow.

After some time, they found the temple, a diphilidated thing with moss overgrowing fallen stones. They each grabbed a black regicide piece.

It was all strangely anticlimactic.

He wondered how Jaune, Ruby, and the others were doing.

_︻┻┳══━一_

"Russel Thrush, Cardin Winchester, Grey Titus, Sky Lark." The hololith projected their names and portraits. A round of applause erupted from the auditorium. Jaune waved from the back.

"The four of you retrieved the black bishop pieces…"

A few teams had already gone up, giving him insight to what happened. A team name was chosen from either a combination of the first letters of their first or last names. The Vindicare had engineered Cardin to be the leader in the forest, trailing behind with the other two and letting Cardin take care of the Grimm. Cardin was also a natural leader, though more by fear than any true ability with people. He would've made the perfect commissar.

The team leader's name went first. He rehashed combinations in his head. The name had to start with either C for Cardin or W for Winchester. CRST. Team Crystal. He didn't like that one. Crystals were fragile things.

CTRL. Control. CGST. Congested. CLGR. Clogger. Probably not that one. CLTT. Clitoris. Definitely not that one. The ones that started with W were nonsensical, the only one that worked being WSTR, or Wandering Star.

"From this day forward, you will work together as Team GR-o-WL..."

That was strange, the name of the leader usually came first.

"-Led by Grey Titus!"

The Vindicare blinked. Cardin's jaw dropped, before his face contorted back into a strained smile. He clapped the Vindicare on the back hard, hard enough to activate the synskin. The crowd applauded once more. He heard nothing, not when Jaune cheered, nor when Russel and Sky whispered behind his back as they walked off the stage. The faintest beginning of a headache set in.

This would complicate his plan by a significant margin, and raised questions he could not answer. Why did the Headmaster choose him? A faint sense of relief flowed through him, though it was short-lived. Ozpin would not have chosen him for leader if he had suspected anything. That much was clear. Cardin was the obvious choice, yes, by a large margin but both Russel or Sky were close candidates for second.

The Vindicare had shown himself to be apathetic, even antisocial under camera. He had dispatched nothing, displayed no accolades in his transcripts. He was the worst choice by far. The worst choice...

"Jaune Arc. Lie Ren. Pyrrha Nikos. Nora Valkyrie. The four of you retrieved the white rook pieces. From this day forward, you will work together as Team JNPR."

Jaune, Ren, Nora, and "Pyrrha" looked ahead. The Vindicare clapped with the rest of the first-years. Nora hugged Ren, the black-haired boy recoiling back.

"Led by Jaune Arc."

"Huh?"

Jaune looked as surprised as the Vindicare had felt earlier. He stumbled, looked around with glossed eyes.

"Congratulations, young man."

Pyrrha smiled and bumped the dazzled Arc. The blonde fell and landed on his rear, stoking a wave of laughter from the auditorium. The Vindicare's theory began to take hold as Team Juniper walked off the stage.

"And finally: Blake Belladonna. Ruby Rose. Weiss Schnee. Yang Xiao Long." Ozpin motioned over the girls. "The four of you retrieved the white knight pieces. From this day forward, you will work together as Team RWBY."

The Vindicare knew the one Ozpin would choose.

"Led by Ruby Rose!"

Ruby looked like she was in shock, her mouth set in a little "o". Yang embraced her sister in a bone crushing hug. Weiss gave a look of barely suppressed anger and surprise. He agreed with her expression. At fifteen, she was far too young to be in charge of herself, much less three others. The worst candidate. Ozpin chose the worst candidate to be leader. It was a somewhat logical decision, though cruel. The team leader worked the hardest, had to handle extra practice while balancing the well-being of their teammates.

While choosing the best would've made this process smoother, choosing the worst forced them to work extra, and therefore develop faster. A miscalculation on the Vindicare's part. He should've displayed extraordinary ability. As they said on Terra, Hindsight was twenty twenty. It was a lovely statement, though his sight was closer to 20/10.

They were issued uniforms after the assembly. It was a black two-piece suit, outlined with gold, and finished with a white undershirt and red tie. Then they moved to their dorms. A small four-bed room with a private shower and two closets.

He chose the bed closest to the lone window on the far side. It would give him an escape route. Afterwards, his teammates left on some errand without him. He looked the room over when they were gone, checking for bugs and cameras behind mirrors, finding none. He even scanned with the Mask. Completely clean. Ozpin put a lot of trust in his students.

He undressed and hid the synsuit underneath his mattress, before stretching himself out. A side effect of stims. They tightened the tendons. He lay on the bed for some time, staring at the ceiling. He still had to craft bullets, and retrieve the Exitus pistol from where he had hidden it in Vale city. He would check on the bar when he went there next.

He closed his eyes. Another side effect of stims was the bone weariness after healing. Mentally, he had two more days before he needed to sleep. Physically, his body demanded it.

At Beacon, he had to find out the location of the "Maidens", whoever they were. Ironwood's report had been inconclusive, only stating that they had to be hidden, and where they were. It shouldn't have been too hard. The Fall Maiden at Beacon was on permanent life support. Unless they were moved, they would stay in one spot. Beacon could not have that many secret locations.

He slowed his breathing and heart rate. His mind did the same.

The last thought he had was the logistical nightmare it must've been to care for all the children that must've resulted from the coed teams.

_︻┻┳══━一_

Ozpin sipped hot cocoa from a thermos and watched a video from the Scroll in his hand. A black-haired figure took off a Mask and ran through the trees. It was a careful path, avoided the cameras where they could. Too bad Beacon had switched to Atlesian built drones for surveillance.

The drone panned out, showed the location of the other students, before refocusing on the boy. His face was set in a neutral line that shifted rarely and broke even less. "Grey Titus," the transcript said, though Ozpin doubted it was the boy's true name. The alias was well constructed, he gave it that. The transcripts were perfect, and had no flaws even when carefully combed through. Teachers responded when called, even gave matching descriptions. Prep Academies assured Ozpin that Grey had attended a few months ago.

It was on a larger scale where the disguise fell flat.

There was a Titus family in Vale's database. They were an old farmer's family that lived on the city's outskirts. When called, they assured Ozpin that their son was in Mistral, and was close to thirty. And they were sure they had no missing relatives.

Glynda walked up behind him, holding her own tablet.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

He sipped more hot cocoa and admired the view from his office. The locked windows gave an excellent view of the entire campus.

"Headmaster?"

He nodded. Glynda scowled and pushed her glasses up.

"For once, I agree with General Ironwood. We should arrest him while we still can."

It was a good idea while Titus attended Beacon. They didn't know how long Titus would stay. Any sign of suspicion and they could bolt.

"The good General believes that force is the only way to solve a problem. And while force may be efficacious in the short term, it can damage the more subtle nuances of a situation before we even know of their existence."

"The Fall Maiden-"

"Is secure." He drank more cocoa. "James does not know her location, and neither does our guest."

"The Relic-"

"Is three stories below Beacon in one of the highest security vaults on Remnant. And Mr. Titus has given no indication he is after either. We will continue monitoring him and intervene if necessary."

"And how was removing the cameras in his dorm part of monitoring?!"

"Mr. Titus has given us plenty of indication that he has a significant knowledge and control of electronic surveillance. We don't want to scare him away before we learn his allegiances. I have a feeling he's not one of Salem's agents."

Glynda sighed and shook her head. It was a subconscious thing she did whenever she did not agree with him. He doubted anyone else could see it. A thousand years of existence had made him more sensitive than anyone else to how others were feeling and the little shared subconscious cues they gave off.

"Until we do, watch him in class. Perhaps a spar or two to learn his true abilities?"

He replayed Titus's landing.

_︻┻┳══━一_

_The ship spent two days in the Warp before dumping them unceremoniously on Urbworld Kenolla in the Sector Sabbat._

_The ship's occupants were shaved, deloused, tattooed with an identifying number, before being issued an itchy uniform that was either too large or too small. He laughed as the nobles squirmed and cried. There were psych evaluations, medical exams, physical testing. Those who failed at this stage were dragged away, sent to work in the Sabbat Industrial War-Machine. Dead before they turned fifty. _

_There had been thirty of them crammed into a dorm in the beginning. Two a bed, three a bunk, five bunks a room. Communal latrines outside, unheated showers. He was in Barracks 1648F in the West Wing for First Years. He shared a bed with the strange noble girl, hated how she hogged the blanket. _

_And then the semester started. Pages of scripture, books of litanies, hours of prayers. He could barely read Low Gothic, much less the High Gothic the tests were written in._

_He spent all night poring over a vocabulary book, trying to memorize conjugations and failing. The binary moon had just begun to shine in through the sole window in the Schola. It showed the shadow of someone walking up behind him._

"_Need help?" The noble girl asked._

_He stared at her with one eye, the other swollen shut. They were beaten every time they failed a test. _

_Help wasn't given, it was exchanged. Years on the streets had told him a favour given was a favour that had to be returned, sometimes two-fold. _

_She smiled an innocent smile, free of any attachments, any bargaining. _

"_Please," He said._

_The noble girl's name was Jenais. True to her word, there were no conditions attached. She helped him with his studies, stayed up late until both of them had eyebags. He was better at vocabulary than speaking. He passed the first test, then the one after that. She smiled for a week straight._

_Growth hormones were mixed with their feed, and they grew, far faster than nature ever intended. He spent nights in agony as bones grew faster than tendons could stretch. The worst nights, he clung on to Jenias, both suffering in silence. Many a Progena was carted away screaming, tied down and writhing. They were never seen again._

_Thirty became twenty. Some of the larger kids fought for their own beds, but he was fine sharing a bed with Jenais. He still grumbled when she took the blanket though._

_Physical education began with the start of the second semester. Scarred Drill Abbots taught them how to strip autoguns, march in cadence, the maintenance of knives. He was the best in the class, prior knowledge from years of living on the streets of Aricia. Jenias was much less privileged, and fumbled pieces and machinery, sometimes inserting barrels into the magazine well. He helped her when Sergeant Renus wasn't looking. _

_He was their main Abbot. A large man with muscle melting into fat, serving for twenty years before ending up at the Schola. One augmentix arm. Harsh with punishments but fair, with wrinkles from a lifetime of laughing. And so the days melted into weeks into months._

_And then the first year was over. It was Sanguinala, a day of festivities and a rare rest from their studies._

_Most of the other Progena had taken to the Schola's arcade to use up their meager allowance. He and Jenais lay together alone on the soft carpeted floor of the library where she had first helped him. Jenais told a joke about Sergeant Renus and he snorted, air passing through his nose. She turned to her side, faced him._

"_So, what have you decided you wanted to be?"_

"_Hmm?"_

"_You know, after you graduate?"_

_He hadn't given it much thought. Back on the streets, he lived day by day, never worrying about tomorrow or the future. She continued._

"_Sergeant Renus wants you to become a Commissar."_

_He laughed out loud. Him, leading others? He was respected, never insulted or threatened, but never commanded, never had that instinctive feeling for people._

__"_Only if you become a Sister of Battle.."_

_She laughed, a shrill thing that he once found annoying. Now, it caused a strange warm sensation to pass through him._

"_You know I'm terrible with weapons."_

"_And I'm terrible with people."_

_They both giggled. Then her face tightened and she grabbed him by the chin so that he stared directly into her eyes._

"_Tell me you'll think about it."_

"_I will."_

_The seriousness of the moment passed. He gave her his best commissar grin. She mock saluted with her other hand. They both became aware of the fact that she was still touching his face. She withdrew blushing, but continued staring. He blushed. It was the weirdest thing. The past few months had its changes on him. He was taller, and stronger, but also growing hair in places he would rather not have hair. He had reported this to Renus during medical checkup, thinking it to be a disease or mutation, and the Sergeant had laughed until he turned red, and told him not to worry about it. There were other things. His voice cracked when he spoke and he was more prone to emotional outbursts._

_And sometimes when he looked at Jenais…_

_︻┻┳══━一_

The Vindicare woke up with an erection.

It stayed even while he brushed his teeth, and only left after he took a cold shower.

It worried him even though he knew it shouldn't. The Officio Assasinorum had went into excruciating detail on human anatomy, dedicating an entire year on the topic. He was biologically seventeen, even after all of augmentations and steroids, and he knew it was perfectly natural and a sign of health to wake up with "Sunup Adamantium" as Renus called it.

He wasn't worried about his health anyhow. His kinesthesia would've told him if anything was wrong.

He did the math in his head. Roughly four weeks. Four capsules in the synskin's drug compartment. It was next to the stims, and never refilled.

He was out of emotional suppressants.

A side effect, or as he suspected, the main effect of the drugs used to slow his heartbeat was the complete destruction of any and all things sexual and sexual related. Now that he was out, he would be prone to mood swings, stronger emotions, and yes, erections. He could still enter the marksman's trance, but it would require much more meditation and take much longer.

He would need to synthesize more the next time he was in Vale city. The ingredients were very common and he had seen a few pharmacies before he came to Beacon.

The Vindicare checked his schedule and then the clock. Classes did not start for another three hours. He could wait inside the dorm until then. The walls rumbled as Cardin snored. A picture frame fell from the wall.

He could also wait in the cafeteria, where he could get food, and more of the wonderful recaff. That sounded much better.

Russel farted.

_︻┻┳══━一_

The cafeteria was open but deserted. A bleary eyed lunch lady took his order, and gave it to him after a moment. He poured himself a cup of recaff from a self serve machine and gave himself a full body examination as he drank it. His aerobic capacity had decreased to 99.67% efficiency and his muscles were 99.98% as dense as they could've been.

After eating breakfast, he found the school's gym and did a light workout. It was more cardio than strength, a bench press of a mere two hundred kilos for thirty repetitions and a trifling one hundred kilos for squats. Then three rounds of calinthesitics. After he finished with the last hundred pull ups, he did a light fifty kilometre an hour jog around the school.

He cased the school as he did, noting minute differences between architecture and base ground. The Schola, if it could be called that, was very poorly defended with no buttresses, ramparts or vantage towers except for the one that made up Ozpin's office. There was also another tower much further away. The CCT if he was not mistaken.

His teammates were still sleeping when he returned so he took another unimpeded shower. After toweling off, he put on the synsuit and his uniform, inspected himself in the mirror, and went to his first class of the day, Grimm studies with Professor Port.

It would be useful to know to find out more about the Grimm from the perspective of Remnant. His own ideas about the Grimm were all theories based on his own experience with the Ruinous powers, none of which he knew applied here. As he walked through the courtyard, he saw Ozpin and Glynda walking together. He looked down and sped up.

The classroom was set up like a Arbites court, with rows of rising seats surrounding a wall that had sketches of Grimm on it. The professor was fat and aging, with a ridiculous white mustache that could and should only be found in holopicts. They stared ahead in a permanent squint, glancing over students as they entered the room.

The Vindicare took a seat.

Students trickled in, including his team, who sat behind him. A moment before 0900, team JNPR and RWBY burst into the room.

They took seats just as the bell rang. Port began talking.

"Monsters! _Daemons!"_

The Vindicare's head snapped up at the word.

"Prowlers of the night! Yes, the creatures of Grimm have many names, but I merely refer to them as **prey**! Ha-ha!"

A half-hearted cheer of amusement rippled through the classroom. Port coughed.

"And you shall too, upon graduating from this prestigious academy! Now, as I was saying: Vale, as well as the other three kingdoms, are safe havens in an otherwise treacherous world! Our planet is absolutely _teeming_ with creatures that would love nothing more than to tear you to pieces!"

The Vindicare laughed out loud. Remnant was a _paradise _compared to some worlds in the Imperium. Even Terra, the best defended planet in the galaxy was much more dangerous. Everyone looked at him, and he shut up, though he kept a smile on his face. He reminded himself he did not have the emotional crutch of suppressants to hold him back.

"And that's where we come in. Huntsmen! Huntresses…"

Port winked at Yang. She shrunk back, visibly uncomfortable. He jotted down a note.

_Port = pedophile?_

"Individuals who have sworn to protect those who cannot protect themselves! From what, you ask? Why, the very world!"

A student behind him made a sound a mix between a Grox call and a moan and stood up. The Vindicare stared at him.

"This is what you're training to become. But first, a story. A tale of a young, handsome man…"

_Port = __**BISEXUAL **__pedophile?_

"Me! When I was a boy..."

The Vindicare crossed it out. The story rambled on and on, and included an ancient Terran vegetable at some point. It was pointless, narcissistic, and long-winded. His eyes glanced around the room. Ruby was similarly disinterested, balancing a notebook and a fruit on a pencil. It was very impressive. Yang was sitting up straight, face in a thousand yard stare. A black haired girl next to her was doing much the same. Weiss…

Weiss was vibrating in place, throwing glances at Ruby, who had moved on to picking her nose, and growing more and more aggravated.

"A true Huntsman must be strategic, well-educated, and wise!" Port finished his tangent and looked around the classroom. "So, who among you believes themselves to be the embodiment of these traits?"

Three things happened at once. Glynda walked into the classroom. Weiss began raising her hand.

Before Port could choose her, Glynda made eye contact with the Vindicare.

"I believe Mr. Titus does, Professor Port."

Port looked at her before smiling under his mustache.

"Well, then let's find out! Step forward and face your opponent!"

He gestured toward a cage. It shook.

Groxshit.

_︻┻┳══━一_

**Author's Note: Bet you thought our Vindicare friend would do a five man group with RWBY or JNPR! I thought about that but since there was no indication in the show that Ozpin did that, I decided against it. Plus Dove Bronzewing had literally no lines so removing him affected virtually nothing. For the bird theme, we got Grey Titus or "the Grey Tit". Heh. Also the Vindicare needs to get his fix of Space Marijuana. **


	8. Breaking Grimdark

**Chapter 8**

Mrs. Goodwitch stared at him as the Vindicare took off his uniform and drew the knife. While the rules of the school did not explicitly ban the students from keeping their weapons on themselves, most students kept them in their lockers, or in their dorms. He declined an offer to go retrieve the Exitus rifle, not wishing to waste ammunition.

The cage shook with the breath of a large animal. Professor Port stood next to it, holding a two sided axe with a blunderbuss barrel sticking out of the end. Where you braced the weapon safely, the Vindicare could not figure out.

Weiss simmered in the spectator stands and crossed her arms. The rest of the students sat on the edge of their seats, interested. Port raised the unsafe mess of a weapon in front of the cage.

"Let the match begin!"

The axe slashed through a lock. A black tusked creature that looked like a Grox charged out, snorting and growling. Boarbatusk. He had faced one before in the forest underneath Atlas. Heavily armoured in the front. If only he had a weapon designed specifically to pierce armour…

He slashed at it as it passed, blade sparking against the thing's bone. Too armoured to be vulnerable to light attacks. Professor Port made an inane comment about surprise. The grox turned with rage in its eyes, paused, and then hurtled at him with blinding speed, screaming, with its tusks slashing the air from side to side.

He dropped to one knee, braced the blade in front of him.

The grox didn't have the mind to stop. The dissonance field crackled, and the Vindicare's own arms jerked with momentum as the blade smashed through bone. He skidded back a metre before he halted the advance. His muscles screamed as the grox impaled itself further, jerking and thrashing. After what seemed like an eternity, the movements slowed, then stopped.

After another moment, he pulled the blade out. The boarbatusk twitched on the floor, hind legs kicking into the air. He looked around the classroom, made eye contact with Mrs. Goodwitch, as he walked over to the prone body.

And then he stabbed it through the heart. When he looked up again, she was gone.

The bell rang. Student's began packing up their things.

"Bravo! It appears we are indeed in the presence of a true huntsman in training. I'm afraid that's all the time we have for today. Be sure to cover the readings and stay vigilant! Class dismissed."

Weiss stormed out of the classroom as the Vindicare returned to his seat.

"Sheesh, what's with her?"

The Vindicare could only shrug.

_︻┻┳══━一_

_The second year began with a bang. And then another. The dummy rounds they had used as first years were replaced with live ammunition and actual targets. Practice servitors collapsed in heaps as the halls rang out with shots._

_Their bodies were entering adolescence even though most were only seven. Physical training became as much a fact as hunger and thirst. Press ups, pull ups, sit ups, muscle ups. _

_Jenias floundered where he excelled. One day, she fell during the rope climbs, and he had to drop down to pick her back up. Some days, she would wake up too sore to walk and he would carry her to the infirmary. His own muscles swelled._

_Sergeant Renus taught the Progena to center their targets, how to control their breathing, how to squeeze the trigger instead of pull. If he was good at physicals, he was a prodigy at shooting. Three centimeter groupings at a hundred metres. Leagues better than his colleagues. He didn't notice that a black dressed figure watched him when he practiced, entering through the side door and exiting without saying a word._

_Jenias, on the other hand, couldn't hit the broad side of an agri-world trawler. She would pretend it didn't matter, but he could see the sadness in her eyes every time she picked up the rifle._

_He offered to help, but she snapped at him. One day, they separated beds._

_Second semester rolled. The paths of the Commissar, the Tempestus Scions, the Arbitres, were made clear, which classes to take alongside the common ones. He took Leadership, Oration, Summary Execution for Novices. He made new friends and sat with them during supper._

"_Damn waste, those Soriritas," Daig said, gesturing at the female tables with a sausage impaled on a fork. He was a wiry boy with wisps of facial hair, and the common belief of his own infallibility._

_The other boys grunted assent. _

"_Why?"_

_Daig looked at him like he was insane. "Look at them! They're practically wasted. Can you imagine no one hitting that?" Daig pointed a single finger at a tall, graceful figure with a red buzzcut. _

_Olia Orixia. The subject of many a boy's dreams._

"_I can imagine."_

_She was a violent girl, and more than happy to prove it. Daig snorted, pieces of sausage coming out of his mouth._

"_What about __**that **__one?"_

_Said pointed at Jenias. Rage reddened his face. The boy grabbed Daig's hand hard enough to leave an imprint. _

"_Don't ever talk about Jenias like that."_

_Dang grabbed his hand back and rubbed the new red mark._

"_Emperor man, I'm just joking." The boy nodded and turned away. A moment later, Daig spoke again._

"_It's not like she's good enough to become a Sorirtas anyways."_

_Daig woke up later in the infirmary with a broken nose._

_︻┻┳══━一_

Classes were frustrating, to say the least. "Grimm Studies" with Professor Port, the only class where he might learn something new, turned out to be as useless as a Terminator on an infiltration mission. He had learned the other materials at least twice over, one in the Schola, another time on Terra.

Calculus. Done.

Chemistry. Done.

History. Not done, but hardly useful given the surface level information the class taught. The teacher was Professor Oobleck, an eccentric green haired man who talked fast enough for the Vindicare to have to use his neural nodes to understand.

Equipment Maintenance. Propellant in Remnant was a mixture of Dust types, and different quantities resulted in different results. The bullets were also infused, or made of solid Dust for a specific effect. It was the most useful class by far.

Combat theory. Done twice over.

Basic Anatomy. Done at least thrice.

He put one leg in front of the other. Goodwitch was leading a tour of the school, two days after classes had started.

She stopped in front of a set of lockers.

"Each of you will be assigned one rocket-propelled locker to store your weapons and extra armor. Additionally, your locker can be sent to a custom location based on a six-digit code."

The Vindicare failed to see how that could ever be useful. He found himself thinking about many things in Beacon. The armour and weaponry of team RWBY and JNPR being a prime example. And he didn't want to know what Slannesshi techniques Goodwitch used for a riding crop to be effective as a weapon.

His thoughts were interrupted by Cardin cramming Jaune into a locker, closing the door, and then pressing random digits on the numpad.

"What?!" Jaune screamed as the locker's door locked. Engines powered on.

"No, wait, wait! You've gotta get me out of here! Please! Don't! Don't! Don't do it!"

The locker shook, and flew into an open vent in the ceiling. A moment later, it could be seen flying through the sky outside. A direct trajectory to just out of school boundaries, the Vindicare calculated. Goodwitch glared at Cardin along with the rest of team JNPR.

Cardin gave a cocky grin and shrugged. "Just a prank between friends."

For once, Goodwitch's iré was not directed towards him. The past week she had acted like she had a personal vendetta with the Vindicare.

"Mr. Winchester, you have just earned yourself a detention with Professor Port. Please refrain from misusing school property in the future."

Cardin's smile disappeared. Goodwitch continued with the lesson.

"It is the same locker number you were assigned during Initiation. Are there any questions?"

The class was silent.

"Very well. Class is dismissed."

The Vindicare walked towards the armoury. His rounds would have finished printing, and shooting was prohibited after dark. When he arrived, he took the cartridges out of the replicator, wrote down the specifications and headed to the firing range. He grabbed the Exitus Rifle on his way.

This was Batch VII. Batch VI had been far from successful, melting down as they accelerated from the electromagnetic armature rails in the Exitus Rifle. It was an outstanding achievement from his earlier tests. Those just exploded. It didn't help that Dust was far less standard in its actions. A certain percentage of Dust could push hypersonic one day, and barely break the sound barrier the next.

He loaded each round individually, chambering it directly as to remove confusion.

He shouldered the rifle, felt its curves as he centered on the groxseye of a target twenty five meters away.

He read the inscription on the cartridge's metal. 85% Fire, 15% Air. It exited the barrel in a shower of metal. Failure.

75% Fire. 25% Air. It spun sideways as it exited, missing the target twenty five metres away.

65% Fire, 35% Air hit the bullseye. On a completely unrelated target. He sighed. Part of the problem was the lack of conventional metals on Remnant. He was forced to adjust propellant to compensate. Too strong, and the bullet would be torn apart under its own forces. Too weak, and the round would be incapable of maximizing damage.

Some days, he considered just using a solid chunk of metal without any Exitus had its own propelling system, an inbuilt electromagnetic accelerator. The problem with that was the inability of the next round to be chambered without external assistance.

And no one could be found dead finding a Vindicare assassin working a bolt.

The Exitus rifle beeped and he sighed again. Opening the closed bolt, he dug the hot casing out of his rifle with his finger. That was another problem. The weaker alloys of Remnant expanded with use, often jamming the rifle.

He chambered another round.

This went well into sunset, until he was finally removed from the firing range. 55% Fire, 25% Air, and 20% Lightning could use another test. It hit the target.

The Vindicare said goodnight to the Rifle as he put it in his locker. It was only polite.

_︻┻┳══━一_

The following day, he caught the first airship to Vale City after classes. Tomorrow was a weekend, and he would have three days in the city. Many thought like him as there were other students on the ship.

After he landed, he wandered around, looking for a pharmaceutical shop and finding it after some difficulty. The glass door was automat, and opened up to show rows upon rows of consumibles, medications, and other necessities.

He grabbed a basket and went through a mental list of what he needed. He needed something to cook and synthesize in.

Iron pan. Various measurement tools. Butane. Electrical Tape. Cords. Plastic wrap. Rubber tubing.

Then for ingredients. He grabbed one of every vitamin, cough and cold medications. They each possessed a different active ingredient he could use. He turned down another aisle. Heart medications were a must have for the emotional suppressants. Ephedrine, metoprolol,, beta-blockers.

The cashier's eyes opened as he scanned each of the Vindicare's purchases but they didn't make comments.

After exiting the pharmacy, he wrapped around the block, partly because he was sure the cashier had called the Arbitres on him. After a few roundabouts and faux turns, he made it to the bar. He unlocked the door It was just as he left it, only with a new covering of dust on its insides. Rockcrete and glass crunched underfoot as he turned on the lights.

He turned on the stove and set the iron pan on it.

In another, he mixed cough syrup and lozenges after reading the ingredients labels, and set them to a roaring boil. Soon, the room was filled with the smell of artificial fruit. On the side, he connected rubber tubing to form a rudimentary distillation apparatus, using recaff paper as a filter.

It wasn't Venenum calibre, but it would do.

The cold syrup changed colours, turning a dark shade of brown. He removed it from the heat, and added cold water from the fridge. It started dripping into a collection glass. Breaking apart match heads, he mixed the powder with the scant liquid from the ephedrine shots with recaff powder as a binding agent. Once it started thickening, he mixed both together. T

A pale yellow liquid remained. He poured it into a syringe, and put it into the freezer.

Component one done. Thirteen more to go.

_︻┻┳══━一_

A misconception about suppressants was that they were only narcotics. That wasn't true. For every anapletic, there was an equal analgesic, and accompanying painkiller. If you used only the depressant portion of a stimm, your heart would stop at the same time as every nerve in your body shut down It was the stimulants that sped up the processes to a survivable level.

He did the final measurements and poured three still-cooling suppressants into syringes. They still needed the final ingredient. He sliced the tip of his finger, and let the dark red blood flow into a small tube. He did this three times, before attaching all of the tubes to the blades of a blender that he had removed the safety features from.

The blood span at two thousand rounds per minute. It would take sixteen minutes for that to complete so he poured himself a glass of amasec in the meantime and downed it in one go. The golden liquid burned as it went down his throat.

The alcohol was gone before it hit the stomach, neutralized by the biofiltration in his body. His was much weaker than that of the Eversor. The drug cocktail utilized to whip them into a frenzy could kill an Astartes. A verifiable chemical hell.

He poured himself another glass. He hadn't reported back to Terra for his previous mission. No doubt he was already listed as killed, with another apprentice gone to his Lord Assassin as replacement.

He had been on Remnant for just over a month now, and made no progress towards the ultimate goal of removing Salem. Beacon's secrets were just as hidden as they were a week ago, and neither information about Salem nor the Maidens had been revealed to him. He had failed to craft more rounds to the Exitus Rifle and there was doubt whether the new ones would ever be as lethal as the old.

He was down to one magazine of Hellfire, one magazine of Turbo, and nine rounds of shell-breaker and he resolved to never use them unless absolutely necessary. Same with the stims. Remnant did not have the necessary research into germ cultures and virology to make more. The culture in the stims was inert, and did not replicate. There was no way, in his current capacity, to produce more.

He felt tired, more tired than he ever had been before. Categorizing and understanding emotions had been exhausting. An Assassin was never intended to be awake for so long, experience so many things unrelated to the objective.

The blender beeped. The emotional suppressants were in the fridge and he retrieved them. He poured one into a syringe, pushed on the plunger so that he wouldn't give himself an embolism. There was a pause as he held the syringe up for inspection. The bright blue colour of the capsules contrasted with their effect. Then he mixed the plasma with the drugs. They infused into the plasma, a vibrant yellow.

The Vindicare put the three suppressants into the compartment in his synskin suit. They pressurized with a pneumatic hiss.

His pupils contracted as the chemical cocktail went into effect almost immediately. The dissatisfaction of the week was wiped away, replaced with the objectivity of a machine. Cogs didn't care about setbacks. Neither did he.

In the meantime, Torchwick was in Vale city, along with the White Fang. The Arbitres station would probably have more information.

_︻┻┳══━一_

Vale's Arbitres were the most pathetic thing he had ever seen. There were at maximum, twenty, all with minimal training. The Vindicare supposed that the Hunters took care of the criminal element as well so the Arbitres were hardly ever needed.

After spending a significant quantity of time breaking in to the station through a window, he found out that the back door of the station not only directly led to the server room, but was unlocked.

He reviewed the files on the White Fang and Roman Torchwick.

Torchwick must have either been the most skilled, or more likely, lucky thief that the Vindicare had ever seen, leaving behind a trail of burglaries in his path. He had near Hunter training, and a significant quantity of underlings seen with him.

Recently, he had been targeting Dust shops, which was strange. The Lien involved had been negligible compared to a robbery of a bank.

The White Fang were a Faunus terrorist organization with branches all over Remnant. The leader of the Vale division was one Adam Taurus, a skilled sword fighter. The leader overall, was Sienna Khan. Not much was known about her.

The last known location of Torchwick was the shop he had stopped by a week ago. Known associates…

Emperor damn it.

Junior.

Maybe killing the arrogant asshole wasn't the best course of action. Second associate.

White Fang.

That was convenient. If he found the White Fang, they would lead him to Torchwick. And vice versa. The problem now was encountering either. The Vale Arbiter's file ended there.

The Vindicare considered options to attract either. Torchwick was interested in Dust, at least for the time being. He could hang around Dust shops in his free time. Eventually, by proxy, he would encounter Torchwick. He shook his head. There was no guarantee that Torchwick would hit the store he was in for one, and it would take far too long.

The White Fang, on the other hand, were attracted to Faunus rights. More specifically, those who violated them. They firebombed and murdered store owners who didn't serve Faunus. That was an interesting possibility.

If he murdered enough Faunus, eventually they would come looking for him. Of course, the entire city would do the same. Probably the Grimm as well, from all that negativity.

He sighed. While it would faster than ground pounding, destroying random Abhumans was distasteful to the extreme. Life was the Emperor's currency. Seríal murdering was not spending it well.

He would come up with something else. He always did.

_︻┻┳══━一_

Neo Politan strutted down the streets, twirling her umbrella in a semicircular arc.

It had been a good week. The new goons, for one, were far less useless than Junior's henchmen, which had disappeared without a word one night. Useless red-suited thugs. The new ones were a different gang, the Brass Badger Clan. A few beatings, one killing, and they were hers to toy with.

It felt good to be queen. Especially with that femme-fatale _bitch_ breathing down her neck. The only reason Roman and her still worked with Cinder was her infinitely deep wallet. And Neo was always told to never look a gift horse in the mouth.

Vale Police had been as slow as ever, arriving long after they had made their getaway. She was currently on her way to Junior's, to give him a word or two. The lethal tip of the blade in her umbrella glinted in the moonlight, before she retracted it again.

She wore a sadistic grin. Beating up gang members without aura got old so quickly. As she turned the corner to Junior's bar, she noticed the lack of the usual guard. Strange. Junior wasn't one to slip like that. It didn't matter, she would rectify it shortl-

A man slipped past her.

She blinked, there hadn't been sound of his approach. As she watched, he unlocked Junior's bar, then slammed the door shut. She walked up, tested the knob. It jiggled but didn't open. The stranger had locked the door.

That was definitely out of place. Junior was a control freak. That could be seen in the matching outfits of all that worked under him. It was how he had risen so high in the criminal underground, vetting all, and trusting few. It was impossible that he had given someone else a pair of keys.

Now that she was paying attention, she noticed the lack of music and vomiting drunkards outside. Junior never shut down the bar.

She tapped the door of the bar inquisitively with the handle of her umbrella. After a brief moment, the stranger opened the door. He was tall, not just compared to her, with piercing black eyes and scars across his face. The lowest moved with his mouth as he spoke.

"What do you want?" A pause. "If you're looking for Junior, he's not here anymore."

]The door slammed in her face, but not before she caught a whiff of chemicals from inside. Drugs? Junior did information, all types of information, but not drugs on such a large scale, and never so blatantly. A few under the counter items at the bar, one or two dealers outside. He didn't want to sully the Bar. Vale police visited once a month to question and search the premises, and were always turned away empty-handed.

It was a fact, an unspoken rule. One that was being broken, along with countless others, revealing an undeniable truth. Junior was no longer the king.

Neo had grown up around killers. She recognized the wariness, the darkness in the soul. Even though she hadn't detected the stranger activating his aura, she felt it emate from him in waves.

If her instincts were right, Junior was probably long dead, body falling apart beneath the waves. She smiled despite her lack of a kill. The criminal underground had changed substantially with Junior's death. The old information king was dead. She never liked him much. Too flashy. Roman would be pleased to meet the new one.

_︻┻┳══━一_

The Vindicare crafted enough emotional suppressants to last him the rest of the semester. The chemical fumes in the room made his head hurt, and his vision danced from the contact high. It was well into the next day, with the files on Torchwick and the White Fang scattered across the floor.

He had also experimented with some combat enhancers from the things left over. While he could handle pain, a well timed enhancer could increase his close quarters effectiveness by two hundred percent. It would be necessary if he didn't want to use the Exitus. He thought about creating a laspistol. Remnant had the necessary crystalline technomancies to create the lasgun's lenses, the most crucial element, and the power pack, the second most crucial part.

Without a portable power pack, the lasgun would need to be wired to a generator. He went through the construction details. A hot shot used by the Scions, about the power of a .50, but with no recoil, little sound, and an easily obtainable energy source. He only had to throw the power pack into the fire for Emperor's sake.

It would be much weaker than the Exitus, of course, but allow him a ranged option until he figured out bullets. Remnant's mass produced weapons were little better than stubbers, and he doubted that they could hurt a Grimm, much less Hunters with aura.

Going after Torchwick with only a knife seemed like a foolhardy decision. The ring was an emergency use only, and he rubbed it. The laspistol wasn't important at the moment anyways. He still had to conduct field operations to find Torchwick.

It wasn't like Roman Torchwick would just waltz into the Vindicare.

Something tapped on the door, once, then twice. It was becoming a recurrent theme as he worked in Junior's bar. He had answered three already, and had to explain about the lack of the prior owner. Two were part goers who were disappointed, and left prompt. The other was a pink and brown haired girl with mismatched eyes. A courier or escort of some sort. After he closed the door, he watched her through the eyeglass to find her standing there for some time. Likely wondering what to do with whatever she had been tasked with delivering.

He looked through the eyepiece as he walked to the door. Pink hair greeted him half a meter down. It was the deliverer again, and he groaned in frustration. The Vindicare hoped that Junior didn't pay money to protection rackets. His own funds were precariously low.

The door opened outwards, which he liked. It allowed him access to a quick scan of the environment, and a convenient right sided draw if need be.

The pink and brown haired girl looked at him. She smiled.

"Now what do you wa…"

Another figure stepped from beside the door.

Orange hair and a black and red bowler hat entered his vision.

_︻┻┳══━一_

**Author's note: It's Penny, wearing a bowler hat, and showing off her new friend! Well, not exactly. In this episode, we have the Vindicare making drugs that are probably illegal on Remnant, as well as modern day Earth. Also he's a tad depressed, which is understandable. How would you feel if you put all your heart and energy into applying to a top tier university, and then it blows up the week before you attend? That's what it's like to be Oficio Assasinorum, go through eight years of training, and then be dumped on a wholly different place, where you can't murder people willy nilly. Truly the most grimdark of fates.**


	9. Friendly Sparring Match

Roman Torchwick stood in front of the Vindicare, the pink and brown haired girl by his side.

The streets were empty, no cameras. He could end Torchwick's life right now, if he'd liked. His hand dropped to the knife by his side, but he didn't grab it outright. Torchwick was high in the criminal underworld, and killing him could have repercussions he didn't fully understand. Plus he needed the criminal to find the White Fang.

"Roman Torchwick." He wished he was wearing the mask. It would be easier to hide the sneer on his face.

Torchwick and the girl strolled past him into Junior's bar. His bar. A brief flash of anger passed through him through the suppressants.

"Nice place you have here." Torchwick said, as he walked by the makeshift drug lab. He picked up a used syringe.

"Just moved in."

The Vindicare closed the door, and stepped towards the counter where the Exitus pistol was hidden. He poured two drinks, and slid one towards the criminal.

Torchwick stopped the glass and looked into it. "Building must have cost you a fortune, placed so close to the Industrial District."

"I made a deal with the previous owner."

"Junior, was it?" Torchwick took a sniff. "Where is he now?"

It was feigned ignorance. The amusement on Torchwick face was masked, but perceivable by the slightest upturn of his face.

"Gone."

The murder was left unsaid. Torchwick put the amasec down and smiled. His teeth were recently cleaned, much too white. They matched the tailored suit and polished shoes. It was a choice, on Torchwick's part, to appear charming, a recognizable figure on the news.

The Vindicare hated it.

"Will he be coming back?"

The Vindicare's patience was at its limit. He inched one hand onto his lap, closer to the Exitus.

"What do you want?"

Torchwick's smile deepened. "A man of few words." He stood up and waved his cane. The Vindicare noticed the gun barrel at the end of it.

"Love it. Let's cut to the chase. You're new here, and you might not know it, but I've got connections. With my help, I can boost your sales of whatever the hell that setup's for."

He jerked his head to the distillation apparatus.

The Vindicare understood. Torchwick thought that he was a common drug dealer. Though if he was Vale's number one criminal…

"For what? I'm a nobody. I can't see how even a cut of profits would concern you."

A flash of teeth. The cane tapped the ground.

"Smart too. You'll do nicely. There's a woman. Cinder Falls. She's bad news. Even though she's only been around a few months, she's making the rounds in the underworld. Infinite funds, and two hunter level lackeys following her."

His voice dropped until it was barely a whisper.

"And, don't quote me on this, but people say she's got something special. Unnatural. And I've seen the burned, scorched bodies she leaves behind."

"I don't do contract kills."

Raw anger bubbled in the Vindicare's stomach. The activation of an Assassin was no small undertaking. Each mission needed two thirds majority of the Senatorum Imperialus. If Torchwick thought that he would use the Vindicare to destroy his betrothed, he would find a shell breaker round in his head, ignorance or not.

Torchwick blinked. Snorted, and burst open laughing. The pink girl did the same, but made no noise. She hadn't talked the whole encounter, eating ice cream in the corner. Torchwick wiped a tear from his eye.

"That's rich. Really. Priceless." He imitated the Vindicare's voice, broke down halfway through. "I don't do contract kills. Like you could just kill Cinder fucking Fall."

His smile disappeared and he looked the Vindicare in the eye.

"I need you to interact with her in my place."

"Why?"

"I care about two damn people in this entire damn world. Just two. Myself, and Neo."

The pink girl waved with one hand, spoon in the other. Neo.

"And every time I work with Cinder, I see one of us getting hurt. She's getting angsty, though I don't know why she would possibly be nervous about anything. Lashes out at the smallest mistake."

"You want me to be the _fall man_?"

Torchwick laughed.

"I was going to say it in nicer terms, but yes. The fall man."

"And if I refuse?"

Torchwick's cane moved. The Vindicare caught it with one hand, keeping the end pointed away at him, and drew the Exitus pistol with the other. The lethal eye pointed at Torchwick's temple. Neo paused, spoon in the middle of entering her mouth. Torchwick smiled.

"Nice reflexes. And I assume that sword on your side isn't just for decoration. You really did kill Junior didn't you?"

"..."

"Look buddy, I can make you richer than your wildest imaginations. All you gotta do it talk to a scary lady in a red dress. You don't even need to come up with anything. Just do as she says, when she says it."

Torchwick was not the criminal mastermind the Vindicare thought him to be. Cut off the head of the snake, and the body follows. Unfortunately, Torchwick was not the head.

Cinder Fall on the other hand…

"I accept."

"Thank Dust. Thought I might have to kill you there for a second."

"I have a condition though."

"Rethinking the whole killing thing."

"Nothing substantial. I don't need Lien. I need information."

"And you killed Vale's largest information broker, no pun intended, why?"

"A mistake." He paused. It was unlikely that Torchwick knew about Salem, so he chose the second best thing. "I need information on the White Fang and Beacon Academy."

The Arbitres file said that Torchwick was connected to the White Fang. And it was a good guess that the master criminal would have someone that knew something about the most prestigious academy on Remnant.

"Done and done. Something personal to settle with the White Fang?"

"Something like that."

Killing them to a man was rather personal.

"I will ask that you hold off on it for a few weeks. Got big plans for them."

He'd waited months before on a mission. What was a few weeks? The Vindicare stuck his hand out. Torchwick took it.

"Welcome to the big league pal."

_︻┻┳══━一_

The Vindicare didn't dream that night, or the next. The suppressants did their job, and he woke up every morning fresh and alert. Torchwick had been good on his promise, and the Vindicare would meet up with someone who held Beacon's blueprint the next time he was in the Vale city. He would also meet up with Cinder. If she was as dangerous as Torchwick made her out to be, he would have to bring a precious shell-breaker and a stim for assurance.

Classes went by in a blur. He kept to himself, only answering when he needed to. With some skills, and well placed prayers, he managed not to be roped into any more demonstrations by Goodwitch.

His team avoided him, sitting with another perpetually, squinty-eyed student. More than perfect. With any luck, they would alienate themselves from him further, and he wouldn't have to handle them at all.

Currently, he was seated in the practice arena, with Goodwitch explaining how sparring worked. There was a teacher supervised testing program, of which five had to conducted each semester to pass. There was also student directed sparring, a full hour dedicated to it every day.

"-the computer can gauge your current aura level. It will be displayed on the screen above, during a sparring session. If a combatant falls beneath 30% Aura, they can forfeit the round, and still receive a passing grade and a chance to retake the spar."

Goodwitch pressed something on her tablet and brought up two empty blue screens.

"Now that you all know how it works, do we have any volunteers for the first demonstration of the year?"

Yang raised her hand, and stood up. She had a predatory smile on her face, one that unnerved the Vindicare. It reminded him of the bloody maw of a Khornate Berserker.

"Miss Xiao Long."

The blonde stepped down the stairs, towards the locker rooms.

"Would anyone else wish to participate?"

The Vindicare looked away. In the Emperor's name, someone volunteer. Please. Weiss, Pyrrha, Jaune, Cardin. Anyone. The students murmured but nobody responded.

"How about you Mr. Titus?"

He nodded, sighing internally. Goodwitch still had a peculiar dislike of him, despite his best efforts to remedy relations. She called on him for demonstrations, chose him to answer questions. It was like she was testing him, though he could not imagine what for. He took the steps slowly as he considered his next move.

A momentary foresight had him link his Jacque's stolen scroll with the integrity of his overall musculoskeletal structure, and the synskin suit. If he controlled his bleeding, and applied a liberal usage of augmentix, he could imitate someone with an unlocked Aura. There was only one issue with the plan. Small issue.

The hunters were superhuman psykers. A sparring match ended when Aura reached 20%. Hunters, even hunters in training, could shrug that off as there was no physical damage, rest, and recharge. If he reached 20% musculoskeletal integrity, it would be a week of painful rehabilitation, and the urination of liquefied muscles. And occasionally, someone would fall even lower before the match was called off. He ran the risk of being seriously injured, if not killed.

All the more incentive to win.

He pulled the knife from the locker. The custom made handle fit in his hand better than anything else he had touched when he had gotten it, or since. Utilitarian black, with an etched skull as a hilt. The power cells were self charging, powering dissonance fields that could carve through ceramite.

He spun it experimentally. He always called the knife, well, "the knife", but to most, it would be closer to a sword, the blade almost the length of his entire forearm. The weight was perfectly balanced at the crossguard, and he stopped it after a twirl.

Hopefully, it would be enough.

︻┻┳══━一_

Yang was already in her combat outfit, a neon yellow thing covered in fripperies, and waiting when he stepped out of the locker room.

The Vindicare caught a glimpse of red shells underneath the yellow gauntlets she wore. Power cells? Rounds? He couldn't see what they would power or fire out of.

She waved, scanned him, then frowned when she looked at the knife. He thought he noticed her eyes change from violet to red, before reverting.

"Aww, thought I would get to see you use that gun of yours~"

"It's under repair."

The lie came easily. Those who watched him in class could attest that he fiddled with it often.

"Would the two fighters take positions on the opposite sides of the arena?"

Glynda connected the Scrolls to the central computer. After some time, two green status bars came up, underneath their profile pictures. Her aura, his life. Terrifying to see it laid out bare. Two years of training to mask injuries, ignore pain, to fight with mortal wounds, and the machine could reveal it all.

"Are both participants ready?"

He nodded, and took a classic melee stance, one practiced on Penal Worlds everywhere.

"Yup!"

Yang bumped her fists together. The yellow bracelets transformed into a pair of gauntlets that did not cover the fingers. There was a barrel above the space between the index and middle finger. Smoothbore ten gauge. A close range weapon, though he couldn't imagine the arrangement of the weapon being useful. The gauntlet added weight to the punch, but the unprotected fingers prevented straight blows without risk of knuckle damage. Aura was the only reason the weapon worked as a weapon and not as an improvised bludgeon.

He supposed he was being a bit judgemental. Vindicare hated shotguns. Just like how Felinids hated Cánids. Only natural.

"Alright. On your marks..."

His knuckles tightened around the knife. She took up a strange stance, more show than practical, full of holes. One near the ribs, another close to the jugular.

"GO!"

He erupted, faster than a sprinting Astartes, faster than the top speed of a Leman Russ. In a heartbeat, he crossed the arena, fist slamming into Yang's nose. It would've, should've shattered the skull. In the same motion, the knife lanced forward, aimed at the space between her third rib and fourth rib. Kine dampened both blows, and as the knife bounced, he was already attacking the larynx, the carotid arteries with savage strikes.

She attacked blindly, like a novice, all straight punches and kicks. Sloppy, but powerful. The shotgun in her gauntlet fired pure Dust that arced through the arena. Students in the bleachers screamed as explosions rocked the room. He dodged those he could, and parried away those he couldn't, as he pressed the onslaught. A few ineffective attacks struck him, but the synskin suit hardened at the point of impact, spreading the brunt of the damage.

Then her hair began glowing.

A massive right cross he didn't see in time sent him reeling as flames exploded across his torso. Yang had recovered from the initial violence of the attack, and engaged him in her own offensive. He got his shoulder in the way of a blow that would've taken his head off, but instead threw him to the floor. He landed with a sideways cartwheel, pivoted with the non knife hand pressed to the floor.

Dodging a high kick, the knife flickered, and slammed into her torso. His other arm added force, and Yang skidded across the floor. It felt exaggerated, and he had to remind himself of Remnant's lower gravity.

He stood up and raised the knife. Yang did the same with her gauntlets. Ten meters away from one another, they eyed each other. The Vindicare looked up at the computer screen.

"I surrender."

︻┻┳══━一_

Yang was having a bad day. Team RWBY had stayed on campus the past weekend, because Weiss had insisted that the whole team study for the first test of the year. The first test! It would probably be on the difference between a beowulf and a ursa, and what a grimm was.

Two days later, she found herself in class. If Port's lesson wasn't as boring as it usually was, Peaches lesson on the taxonomy of plants found in Mistral was. She wanted nothing more than to beat someone or something up. The answer to her prayer was found in the first spar of the year.

As soon as Mrs. Goodwitch had asked for volunteers, she was already answering.

"Miss Xiao Long."

She looked around the room, smiling, hoping someone to answer her. Those who knew her from Signal, kept their heads down. Her own team was exhausted from studying. Team JNPR whispered but nobody stood up. It was for the better. Jaune was a good friend, but she had a feeling he wasn't good in a fight. Nora would kill her if she hurt Ren. And vice versa. Lovebirds, the pair of them, but Nora kept insisting they weren't "together-together". Whatever that meant. And Pyrrha would wipe the floor with her. She felt a flutter of panic.

What if no one volunteered?

"How about you Mr. Titus?"

Grey had been looking away, his face an unreadable mask. It was always like that. She had talked to him once during Initiation, and a few passing remarks in class, and it had not shifted once. Occasionally, an extra burst of air would come out of his nose. She supposed that was his equivalent of either roaring laughter or deep lasting disappointment.

He was the team leader of GRWL. The rest of them were a bunch of bullies, and she had seen Cardin shove Jaune into the locker. One of those alpha-types that thought arrogance was something to be proud of. The other two swirled around him, like flies around shit.

Grey on the other hand...

Well. He was Grey. Tall athletic Grey. Keeps to himself Grey. Come to think about it, she didn't know what he did in his free time. She would ask him later. After beating him up, of course. Maybe she would get to see how that massive rifle worked. Eggs-and-tits, or something like that.

She took the steps two at a time, put on Ember Celica, before strutting out onto the arena. Her team cheered and waved flags.

After three minutes, but what felt like an eternity, he did also with a worn black sword in his hand. A hot flash of anger passed through her. Did he think she was weak and didn't bring the rifle? As he walked up, he glanced over her. Yang knew she was beautiful, flaunted it, but Grey's look was cursory, without any emotion. When she teased him, his face remained a set line, like it was carved from granite, then uttered a lie about "repairs." With no sparring thus far, it was impossible that he had damaged it already. Definitely felt he was too good for her. More anger. It would feel good to knock him down a level.

They went to opposite sides.

Goodwitch asked if they were ready. Yang activated Ember Celica, and said yes. Grey nodded.

"On your marks."

Grey dropped to a crouch, with one leg bent and in front of the other. Weird. It was like he was going to sprint…

"Go!"

Grey became an afterimage. Before she could blink, he was on her, a flurry of blade and limbs. He didn't fight. Fights were two sided affairs with two participants. Grey attacked. He punched her face, as he stabbed at what felt like everything. She felt pinpricks against her sides, her necks, her joints. Aura fell by the percentage.

_Fight back, dummy._

She threw punches, kicks, but they felt too slow, like she was moving in honey. She fired Ember Celica with each attack. Grey was a blur of motion, and dodged the rounds, or as they soared off into the crowd, deflected them. Where Ember Celica roared, Grey was already gone. Still by luck, she got him twice, a glancing blow on the arm, and once on the torso. Even then, something felt wrong.

People turned with blows, but Grey didn't move, didn't react. It was like hitting a brick wall, but she could destroy brick walls. She noticed an opening in the fastest reaction than she had ever made before, and took it. Her semblance enhanced the fire dust round that exploded against his ribs. He staggered, the most he had reacted before, and she put all her body weight into an uppercut to his face.

He raised a shoulder as defense, but the momentum of her semblance threw him off balance. She predicted that he would get back up, and kicked at where she thought his face would be. Instead, he turned as he fell, using her own power against her, and slammed the blade into her body with all the capacity of a train.

She flew into the air, and landed on her ass. She got up instantly and eyed him. He was breathing hard, but not sweating, with the knife in the ready position. Any second now, he would launch another blistering attack. She raised Ember to block it. With any luck, her semblance gave her a fighting chance.

He glanced at the wall. She did the same with one eye, watching for an attack. Any second now.

82% and 29%.

"I surrender."

What?

Grey swung the sword over his shoulder, and walked away, in the direction of the restrooms. The room went silent enough to hear his shoes slapping the ground.

**WHAT?**

︻┻┳══━一_

The Vindicare hid his limp as he walked away. He had wrenched his ankle with the counter-attack and the two new bruises on his body throbbed with every step.

As soon as he closed and locked the door, he fell onto the sink, a massive coughing fit overtaking him. Blood splattered onto basin. Yang's attack had forced the jagged edge of a broken rib into his lungs, and he had to expel the blood.

After what felt like hours, he stopped. He stared at himself through the mirror. Blood was on the corners of his mouth, and he wiped it away with a paper towel. His civilian clothes were all but destroyed, with patches burned and torn. He blinked.

His left arm appeared below the other. He tried to make a fist, and failed, his hand shuddering with palsy. Dislocated. He relocated it, red-hot pain lancing through his entire body. Taking deep breaths, he splashed water onto his face until it no longer felt like he would pass out.

A stimm would be great, but he couldn't waste one. His body was already healing, albeit a tad slower than he would like. Walking over to the toilet, he tossed the bloody paper and flushed it.

After another moment, he walked out, barely keeping the knife from touching the floor.

The other students stared at him. Goodwitch was as well.

"Well?"

What was happening?

"What?"

"I am assuming you have an explanation?"

He pointed at the restroom. The class rippled with laughter. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Mr. Titus, you surrendered a match."

"Yes."

"Your aura was at 82%."

No. His health.

"Yes."

"Xiao Long was at 29%."

"Yes?"

"Did you misread the monitor, and think you were at 29%?"

"No."

"Then why did you surrender with a 57% lead in Aura?"

Because he didn't want to be carted away, blood streaming down his face. He could've beaten Yang, no doubt, but the damages sustained would've been much too high to mask.

"I needed to use the restroom."

Someone laughed. He saw Yang in the back. This time, he was sure that her eyes were red.

"Mr. Titus-"

"Mrs. Goodwitch, I invoked the rule that someone could end a fight if someone's aura dropped below 30%."

"Yes, but-"

"And Yang was one percentage below."

She stared at him. Yang looked positively murderous.

"Mr. Titus, you cannot surrender for someone else."

"I didn't. I surrendered."

A pause.

"You are aware that this will be counted as a loss on your transcript unless you choose to rematch?"

Didn't care.

"Yes."

The bell rang, and he walked away from one confused Goodwitch. With any luck, he would not have the face the blonde brawler again. He rubbed his bruises. He wasn't sure he would survive the next encounter.

︻┻┳══━一_

_The months of the second year melted away, until it was Sanguinala once more. This time, he spent it alone, pacing the halls. His fellow second-yards went into town, getting drunk on second rate amasec and lho sticks._

_With nothing to lose and nowhere else to go, he walked into the library. It was his favorite place in the academy, by far, because of the lack of anyone else. He sat in his favorite seat by the only window, and picked up a classic war book._

_Some time later, minutes or hours, another weight pushed down beside him. He flipped a page. There was silence._

"_Progenia Jenias."_

_She was silent. He put the book down, and the two stared at the city below, without a single word. She was the one who broke the silence. _

"_Aren't you mad at me?"_

"_For what?"_

"_Ignoring you all year."_

_He was hurt, but not angry. And not hurt enough to yell at her for it._

"_Not really."_

"_I just didn't want you to feel like you needed to help me."_

"_Sure."_

_She breathed out, and he looked at her from the corner of his eye. Her hair was done in a ponytail, and there was some makeup on her face. She must've came here from a party. _

"_So," she said, "I've been thinking-"_

"_A dangerous past-time."_

_She blinked, then snorted. He looked her in the eyes, and the two burst out laughing. _

"_You haven't changed one bit, have you?"_

"_Nope."_

_Her smile dissipated, and she bit her lower lip. A warm glow lit up her cheeks and neck. She looked beautiful in the light._

"_We have one more year here."_

"_Thanks, Primarch."_

"_Hey, I'm being serious," she punched him in the arm, but didn't draw it back, instead wrapping it into his. His breath slowed as she leaned her head into his neck. He was a little too tall, and he had to turn his head to accommodate._

"_I'm sorry. I wanted to make friends with the Progena and you're so bad with people and-_

"_It's alright."_

_The two sat like that for a while. She broke the silence._

"_There's an opening in the Ultramar Sector for two members of the Oficio Administratum. Clerical stuff, no active combat roles. Lifetime roles. They're looking for Schola graduates. I was thinking…"_

"_Yes."_

_She turned wide eyes to him. He wrapped her hair in his hands, her body pliant. And then they kissed under the hive lights._

︻┻┳══━一_

The Vindicare woke up with every part of his body sore. Sweat pooled on his bed. Sometime during the night, he had kicked off his blanket, and it lay on the floor. In the dorm's bathroom, he urinated red, and cleaned his face as he looked at himself in the mirror. His bruises were fading, and he massaged them carefully. The shoulder was stiff, but healing correctly.

The dreams had returned, this time stronger. Previously, he had only known that he had dreamed. Now, he could remember events and names, even after he woke up. The suppressants he had made were not as powerful as the ones on Terra, and his body had already adjusted to the dosage. The counter inflammation and healing must've weakened the effects further, until he could dream again.

Jenias.

She meant something to him, once, before he became an assassin. But he couldn't remember why. They were probably Progena together, in the same year. And something told him that she was a noble, though he couldn't imagine himself being friends with one.

He wondered what she looked like as he pulled on a shirt.

It was like grabbing at smoke. Wisps of thoughts and faces dissipated as he turned to them. It bothered him. He was familiar with the post augmentation eidetic memory. This was from prior, the thoughts of a mortal, and they danced past his reach. After some failed attempts, he went outside.

The shattered moon was out in full force, lighting the courtyard. His own injuries faded as new blood flowed into them, and by the end, he felt almost as good as usual. His hairs prickled on his neck, but he found no one else. After a few cautionary exercises, he went to the armoury.

Ozpin watched him from the tower.

︻┻┳══━一_

**Author's note: Thought I would describe the overgrown knife/sword the Vindicare has and his skills in melee. I hate getting my lore from this, but on the tabletop, his model has a massive knife in a leg sheath. He also has five attacks and wounds. No armour piercing, so basically love taps to most things in 40k, and five wounds, in a world where 50 cal is considered weak, but still. Five. That's a lot for someone that has one of the highest sniper range in the game and isn't supposed to get into close quarters unless everything had gone to shit. Also the Vindicare can fight to death, unlike some other units, *cough*, Imperial guard.**


	10. Burning Embers

**Chapter 10**

The Vindicare steadied his breathing and centered on his target. His finger brushed against the trigger, squeezing but not pulling.

The laspistol exploded in his hand. Shards of molten metal brushed against his cheek, as light filled his vision.

The Vindicare threw the flaming weapon onto the ground and stamped out the fire, blinking out spots in his eyes. Lasguns were tough things, and he had no doubt that the chassis would be none the worse for the wear. As the metal cooled, he reflected on what went wrong.

The power pack had discharged too quickly, overloading the surge-matrix and its capacitors, and sending the energy backwards. Hot-shot lasguns needed more calibration than their more contemporary counterparts, which was why they were only issued to the more trained Tempestus Scions. Even more so for laspistols, which had less space for error in the tiny components. In attempting to make a more powerful weapon, he had instead created a grenade. An apt comparison given the Guard's usage of overcharged power packs as such.

He picked up the pistol from the warped plastic stock. There were scorch marks all over the magazine well, and the metal used in the barrel was blackened. He ejected the remnants of the power pack.

Adjusting the dial on the side, he set a more reasonable output level and tried again with another power pack. This time red las lit up the range, and the metal target exploded in a shower of sparks.

He checked the battery life. A tenth of a percentage. The little hotshot laspistol needed more calibration given the waste light produced, but was combat effective. He sighed. If only he had such luck with the Exitus rounds. The ruined cartridges of Batch XVI sat next to him, in various states of destruction. Despite another week gone, and over ten new iterations, he was yet unable to make suitable rounds.

He had made progress, of course, and half the time, the new rounds could chamber and fire semi-automatically, but much too frequently for his liking, a round would misfire. And the rounds that did exit the barrel did so at a fraction of the power he expected of Exitus. Adding secondary thrusters would destabilize the trajectory.

The worst of it was the fact that theoretically, the cartridge should've been able to support the thrust. He calculated its torsion and strength from the dimensions provided on the replicator, and it worked with a tiny margin of error.

Theoretically, at least.

Practically, it was found wanting.

He wished he had collected the spent cartridges of the rounds he had expended in Atlas. It would make the process that much easier. The Vindicare could reload them, and copy their exact specifications.

**BANG.**

A shot rang out in the range, and he turned and found Ruby firing on ceramic plates. He smiled at the familiar report of fifty.

**BA-ANG.**

His eyes narrowed as he noticed something strange. The staccato report of Ruby's scythe-rifle was unmistakably fifty, but there were two of them. The second was much quieter, and happened a hair later than the primary. The Vindicare tracked the next round.

**BA-**

****The round exited the barrel. It was much longer than a normal fifty, with an extension on the end. Right before impact, the extension exploded, propelling the round further.

-**ANG.**

Ceramic exploded into a cloud of dust.

A secondary penetrator. Ruby fired a few more rounds, and he confirmed the sighting. How did she manage to make second thrusters where he had failed? No better place to ask than the source.

The Vindicare walked over, and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Eek!"

Ruby turned with the rifle, and swept the barrel onto his head. He jumped to the side, narrowly avoiding a round from entering his head. Both of his hearts thundered as it smashed into the ceiling.

Emperor's bowels, did this world not teach trigger discipline?!

He closed his eyes and waited until his secondary heart had slowed down before turning to address Ruby.

"-orry, I didn't see you there, and you surprised me!"

"It's alright."

It wasn't, and he had no doubt if the round connected, he would've perished, augmentations and all. But he wasn't about to unleash a tirade on someone he had to ask a question to. Ruby shifted on her feet.

"So, what did you want?"

He struggled to frame the question, and asked around it.

"Nice weapon," he said, referring to the thing that had almost given him an impromptu lobotomy. "What's she called?"

Ruby relaxed perceptibly, twirled the thing in its scythe form. Closer up, he could see the design and construction of the rifle. The scythe made the weapon unwieldy, and impossible to attack with the bladed end without dragging an enemy towards yourself, suicide against a melee oriented enemy, such as the Orks. The rifle form was even worse, top heavy, with an impossibly high and forward facing scope. It was fed by a-

He bit back bile.

Emperor above, the magazine was backwards in line to the barrel!

"Crescent Rose! I made her myself at Signal!"

She was what, fifteen? That made her fourteen at prep academy and…

He blinked. That explained a lot actually. Fourteen, with a gratuitous consumption of entertainment and meager understanding of actual science. Did all hunters construct their weapons? That would explain the other nonsensical things he had seen.

"What're the specifi-"

Ruby answered before he finished, rattling off weight, rounds, length, and width. He noted them all, if the two ever sparred. Twenty five rounds. Formidable, and difficult to dodge. Crescent Rose was heavy, a fraction less than the Exitus, but far worse balanced. It was fifty calibre, fed by an overly complex system he shuddered to imagine.

"Can I hold it?"

Ruby hesitated, but set the rifle down after a pause. The Vindicare ejected the magazine and cleared the chamber to prevent any more accidents. It was heavy, but felt robust, and he could admire the construction, if not the design.

"Titanium steel alloy, with a carbon fiber microlattice."

Weak, comparatively speaking, to either ceramite or adamantium but light. Ruby grinned.

"How do you transf-"

"This button here!"

Ruby pressed it, and he managed to angle the blade away from his face before the microservors deployed. Crescent Rose towered over Ruby, and he doubted that she could pick it up, much less utilize it, without aura.

"How did you manage to get the dual ignition for the round?"

Ruby grin widened until it almost split her face. It was the same one he saw on Yang the other day, and just as terrifying.

"You noticed that?"

Did most people not? He nodded.

"I was about to ask you a question about it. I've been having difficulties with mine."

He jerked his head to the Exitus rifle slung on his back.

"How about it?"

"Hmm?"

He turned Crescent Rose back to its transport box, and set it on the table. He turned to find Ruby trying to think.

"What's it called?" He started to answer but Ruby fired off a series of questions. "What calibre is it? How many rounds? Did you make it?"

He opened his mouth, but Ruby interrupted him again.

"Sorry, I got excited. I'm such a weapons geek! They're so cool, and I haven't found someone to talk about weapons in such a long time. Do you need me to repeat the quest-"

"Exitus. Twenty-Five mm. Ten. No."

He didn't know how much information to give. Technically speaking, the Officio Assassinorum was a clandestine organization. Granted, he wasn't anywhere close to the Imperium, but it still made him uncomfortable discussing the rifle out in the open.

"Twenty-five? I've never heard of that round! That's like… Three times as big as Crescent Rose!"

Ruby Rose. Not good at math. He started to correct her when her eyes widened.

"You didn't make it?"

He understood how to disassemble and reassemble it, as well as repair individual components. While he loathed to do so to such a perfect weapon, he could also adjust and add pieces. However the technology utilized to craft it was known only by a select few among the Officio Assassinorum, and even they barely understood it.

"No. It was given to me."

The mago weapon-smiths had bestowed it to him upon graduation. Or his first Exitus rifle at least. The one he had currently wasn't the first, that one was broken by an Aeldari Spear. It wasn't the second either. That had been eaten by a Tyranid.

"Family?"

Strange first assumption.

"No." He cocked a head at her. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, do you know Jaune?" The Vindicare hadn't talked to him in weeks but nodded. "Well, his swords a family heirloom."

The Vindicare went back to a memory. The sword was simple, with several nicks on the blade. Still in simplicity lies strength, and it was far better than the abomination that Ruby wielded.

"Does it matter if I made it?"

She shook her head with exasperation. "Of course it matters! Weapons are an extension of ourselves-"

The words reminded him of those uttered the day he arrived on Terra. The Assassin is the weapon. Everything else is complimentary.

"You should have made one in combat school!" Her eyes narrowed. "Where did you go?"

Fekke. His mind raced as he tried to conjure up a lesser known school that Ruby would not know. If it was too close, she would be able to find more. If it was false, and she found out, she would grow suspicious.

"Hey sis! Was looking all over for you!"

His saviour was blonde, and turned the corner the exact moment he was about to answer. Ruby waved back. Yang's eyes flashed red when they saw him, but returned to lilac a moment later.

Frak.

"Hello Grey~"

Yang smiled, all canines.

"Yang."

He tried to defuse the situation.

"I was just talking to your sister."

Mentioning Ruby's presence should prevent anything unforward from happening.

"It that right, sis?"

To his utter horror, Ruby blushed and stammered. Yang's smile became even more strained. The tension in the room rose threefold, until he swore he would've been able to see it with the spy-mask. Double Frak.

"Just discussing weapons."

"Oh? And what'd we learn about Grey's gun~"

"YANG!" Ruby blushed crimson and disappeared in a flutter of flower petals. Was that her semblance? Teleportation? His thoughts were scattered by Yang walking up to him. He raised one hand to his face, while he drew the other across his waist. It was a defensive position, and gave him access to the knife, while protecting his vitals.

To his surprise, Yang started laughing.

"Grimm, she's so fun to tease."

In spite of everything, a ping of amusement rang through him. Sibling banter was always amusing to watch, though he still couldn't see any resemblance within the two. She stopped, and looked at him.

"Thank you."

What?

Why was she thanking him? Where was the attack? Was this to confuse him before attacking? She seemed confident, so he responded in a neutral tone with confidence he did not feel.

"You're welcome."

"Though you shouldn't have done it. Next time we spar, I'll win!"

"Sure."

She looked up at him and gave a cocky smile. Then she walked away, calling for her sister.

As he did he pieced together the conversation and its purpose. What was it that Goodwitch said? A spar could be retaken if forfeited. Yang must've believed he spared her willingly so they could face again.

Triple frak.

A trick only worked once. He doubted she would let him rush her again. Despite his superior training and experience, she was still much more durable. As he walked away, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he forgot to do.

︻┻┳══━一_

It came to him on the Bullhead ride. The Vindicare cursed as he realized that he had forgotten to ask Ruby where she got the secondary penetrators. He doubted she crafted them herself, considering the quantity of rounds she had. If the supplier was located in Vale city, he would have to wait until he could ask her again.

It was annoying, but not terrible. There would be other visits to Vale, and the year was far from over.

As he stepped off the airship, he noted the general atmosphere of Vale. People ambled around, enjoying a bright afternoon. Sidestepping a batch of students, he took an alleyway and soon disappeared from any prying eyes.

Torchwick had gave him a meeting place, and he raised an eyebrow when he came upon it. It was a restaurant, judging by the sign, but heavy blinds were drawn across the windows. He tried the front door and found it locked. After wandering around the property, he finally found a side door off the main road. The bell jingled as he entered, and he entered a dirty poorly lit restaurant with no customers.

The only people were two men dressed as waitstaff, watching a television. They didn't make eye contact.

He continued into the back, where there was a single innocuous door opened to reveal a room with comfortable looking furniture, and a minibar. There were a few marked maps and a television attached to the walls.

"The man of the hour!" He turned to face Torchwick who was sitting with his feet propped up on a table. Neo was next to him, and she waved. Then she punched Torchwick in the arm. He sighed and gave her some lien as the Vindicare sat down.

"Bet," he explained. "I didn't think we would see you again. Neo here thought differently."

Neo gave a thumbs up and pocketed the money. Despite the false sense of camaraderie, he kept his hands close to the Exitus pistol and blade.

"When are we meeting Fall?"

Torchwick raised his arm and rolled back a white sleeve to reveal an archaic mechanical time keeper.

"Quarter to twelve."

The Vindicare looked at his scroll. It was eleven thirty. An unexpected flutter of nerves hit him.

"This is going fast."

Torchwick snorted. "You have no idea. I swear she goes through a person a day. She practically wanted to meet you the instant I told her about you."

"What about you?"

"What about me?" Torchwick gave him a curious look. "This isn't the first time I've referred someone to Cinder."

"What happens to them?"

Neo cut her finger across her throat. Torchwick looked away. The Vindicare took a deep breath, and put both his hands on the table.

"Advice?"

"You're asking now?"

The Vindicare had no words to respond to that. Torchwick lit a lho-stick, filling the room with foul smelling smoke.

"I honestly couldn't tell you anything. I don't know what she likes, or what she doesn't like. Only thing I have is to stay calm," Torchwick looked a him. "You seem to have it down, but don't show any signs of nervousness. She'll go for the jugular."

Torchwick tapped himself on the neck with the end of the lho stick. He closed one eye as something came to his mind.

"Oh. One more thing. Whatever you do, do not, and I mean this, do no-"

A tap on the door. Torchwick stood up, the thought forgotten, and walked towards the door. There was tension in his shoulders, and it grew, as he neared it. Neo sat up straighter, face in concealed anger and fear. The Vindicare set his face into a line, mentally bracing himself for the bodily horror that the top criminal mind had to be. He had slain an Obscura lord on Terra once, and the thing was more outdated mech than anything human. The little flesh that remained was rotting, and fell off in flakes.

Remnant was much better in that regard, much less visceral, but he doubted that Cinder would be pleasant to behold.

The door opened.

"Torchwick, a pleasure to see you again."

Torchwick forced a smile, but didn't say a word.

"And you must be the person he was talking about."

The Vindicare blinked. Through the emotional and hormonal suppressants, that prevented him from seeing figures as more than meat, he could tell that Cinder Fall was absolutely the most attractive person he had ever seen. Her red dress ended above a pair of flawless legs, accentuating a shapely figure that promised the hint of something more. It almost hurt to look at her.

He felt the prick of his synskin suit on his thigh, as the suit detected his elevated emotional status and raised the dosage. His mind cleared and his eyes narrowed even as he stepped forward. He was not one to feel sexual arousal ordinarily. Was there Slaaneshi taint? He decided to test by extending his hand out, a clear invitation for a handshake.

"Grey Titus."

Torchwick shook his head, with gritted teeth as his eyes widened, but it was far too late. Cinder took it.

"Cinder Fall. Pleased to meet you."

Cinder's voice was faux warm, with a honey accent. They shook hands. Her handshake was firm but without any roughness. He felt a familiar tingle down his arm, and he felt goosebumps rise underneath his suit. His other hand dropped by his belt, near the pistol, as he considered the revelation.

The Vindicare was a weak blank, unable to detect the stirrings of the warp. It was not to say that they did not affect him, and he had come close to burning out his null-aura on many occasions. Namely, this manifested by a tingle in the area where the warp was being used. His hand, and his arm. Cinder was using something psyker related on him. The handshake lingered.

She frowned, and released his hand before smiling again. Roman's mouth opened for a second, but closed with a clack. The three moved over to the table, him and Roman sitting across from Cinder. Neo sat away, by the minibar, her hands folded in her lap.

"Report about last night, Torchwick?"

"Dust secured, on transport to the warehouse."

"Any witnesses?"

"No." Torchwick swallowed.

"Lovely," Cinder cooed, "Next order of business. Why exactly did you bring Grey," She turned to address him, "I hope I can call you that."

He nodded, and she continued.

"Why did you bring Grey here? I thought that our partnership was going so well."

"He-"

"Is it because I'm _getting angsty_?" The atmosphere shattered as Cinder used Torchwick's words.

"Or is it because you're afraid I will _lash out_? I have ears everywhere, you know."

Neo looked tense, ready to fight at any moment. Torchwick's cigar fell out of his mouth and he gripped his cane hard enough that his knuckles turned white. Cinder smiled alluringly. It didn't escape the Vindicare's attention that she had arrived alone. The room had one exit, and she was the closest to it.

Torchwick shot a venomous glare at the Vindicare.

Cinder laughed. "No, it's not him. He's as much in the dark as you are. Though I have to wonder why someone would be so interested in Beacon's mapping."

The Vindicare felt surprise, but didn't let it show on his face. Somehow Cinder had eavesdropped on their conversation at Junior's Bar. At Junior's bar… Had he checked it for bugs? No. He hadn't. He hadn't been able to for the first time because he had to dispose of the body. And he didn't the second time when he met Torchwick because he was making the suppressants.

He cursed internally. It was a mistake, and a possibly lethal one. Cinder's smile was as coy as ever.

Could he take her? She was close, barely an arms length away, and the draw of the Exitus pistol would be awkward. He undid the first strap on his holster. There would only be one chance. Even though he didn't see a weapon, he felt that Cinder would destroy him shortly after.

"Now, let's discuss business. I want dust seizures to double by the end of the week. And there will be repercussions if you fail."

Torchwick opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it.

"And you." She turned towards him. "Roman here won't need you anymore. I'm sure I can control myself."

"Great."

He turned to leave. She caught him by the arm, felt the familiar tingle. Her lips turned downward for just a second, as she drew him towards him.

"Though, I'm sure we can arrange something. Or would you rather Ozpin know that your records are forged?"

Roman's mouth dropped fully as surprise overran fear. "You're a student?!"

"And a poor one, judging by his grades thus far." Cinder held them out on a Scroll in front of him. Three C's, two B's, and one A+ in Port's class. There was only one assignment.

The Vindicare thought to explain, but Cinder did it for him.

"Though I'm sure, Grey here would be able to get better ones if he wanted." She smiled as he opened his mouth. "Don't. I don't know what you want at Beacon. But judging from what you did to Junior, I know how much you want it."

She continued.

"We need not be enemies. I'm sure we can figure something out."

He undid the second strap on the holster.

"I need something in Beacon. Not right now, but eventually.."

Anger bloomed in his chest as he considered the criminal's words. Salem was still the number one priority, and until he found her location, everything else was secondary. His best chance of locating her was at Beacon. As much as he wanted otherwise, for now, it would be more convenient to allow Cinder to continue living.

He nodded.

He would play along with Cinder, then dispose of her. As strong as she was, nobody could dodge a bullet while sleeping.

"What do I need to do?"

She grinned, a feral thing. "Nothing right now, though I trust you will take my words to heart. Simply sit tight, and wait for my instruction." Cinder stood up. The Vindicare wondered if that was her real name. And then she strutted out. Torchwick all but collapsed. Neo did the same.

Roman sighed, and poured himself a glass of amasec by the bar. He downed it in one go. His eyes were dull as the Vindicare sat down beside him.

Another glass was filled, and the Vindicare took it.

"Is she always like that?"

︻┻┳══━一_

_He found himself in a bathroom at the Schola Progenium. There was a mirror in front of him, but it had to be broken. He touched his face, and he found that the skin was smooth and soft. When he looked into the reflection, he noticed that something was wrong. His eyes were the wrong color, and he was missing his scars._

_But why would he have scars? He hadn't seen a day of combat, much less undertaken a hundred missions. He was eight, even if he looked sixteen, and it was a month before Selection Day. The third year had been easy, so much easier. He went to his classes, but didn't put any real effort into them. He didn't need to. His ranking fell from number one, to the bottom twenty. _

_The only one he still excelled in was marksmanship. But it was because of talent, rather than true dedication. He wouldn't need it where he was going with Jenias. _

_Jenias talked to him every day, and the two spent most of their free time together. It was comfortable, and the awkward year between them soon disappeared from their minds. He was about to meet her for dinner. He brushed his hair. As he did, he noticed a black clad figure behind him in the mirror._

_The comb dropped from his hands. He didn't scream, a choice that saved him. He didn't know it at the time, but it was an agent of the Officio Assassinorum. Leagues below a true Assassin, but a capable warrior in their own right. Had he screamed, his throat would've been snapped. _

_He turned, and the man addressed him._

"_Cadet."_

_The voice was gravel, had been reconstructed at some point. The boy nodded, didn't know whether to salute or attack. The black figure spoke and made him an offer. _

_It was unbelievable, but the man didn't falter, didn't have a hint of a smile. He described a program, based on Terra, that the boy had qualified for. The details were unknown, but the location was not. Terra herself! The heart of the Imperium, with an entry line that took generations to process. Indeed, many a pilgrimage was undertaken, and the grandchildren of the grandchild of the original pilgrim being offered entry. And the man was giving it to him._

_It took him a second, but he already knew his response._

"_No."_

_The man's eyes narrowed, but the boy was already walking out of the room, already walking towards the dining room where Jenias was waiting. _

__︻┻┳══━一_

The Vindicare had a lot on his mind as he tapped Jaune on the face. The blonde flew backwards. According to the blueprint, Beacon had many open spaces under its campus grounds, and any one of them could hold the Maidens.

Considering the electrical wiring, each was alarmed. He sidestepped a clumsy swing, and pushed. Jaune fell again. The Vindicare was good, but not perfect. Any mistake and Ozpin would be alerted.

He caught Crocea Mors in his hand, and flicked his wrist. The sword flew away. Cinder's vague instructions didn't alleviate his stress either. The Vindicare looked at the clock. It was finally past the minimum amount of time for a spar to count, and he hit Jaune with a series of straight jabs. It didn't need to be fancy. Jaune was a terrible fighter. The blonde collapsed as the arenas gave a buzz. He lifted Jaune to his feet, and clapped him on the back. The bell began ringing.

The Vindicare was gone before Goodwitch could begin talking. Jaune had been chosen for the fight, and he had taken the opportunity to get in a no risk spar credit. Between Yang, and Jaune, he still had three more to go through.

He decided to take a shower at his dorm before lunch. He hadn't broke a sweat, but the dream he had the previous night was still bothering him.

︻┻┳══━一_

**Author's note: I've been really busy this past week and this chapter was one of the harder ones to write. This delayed it a bit. Sorry bout that.**


	11. Calm before the Warp Storm

**Chapter 11**

It didn't make sense, he decided.

The man in his dream was an Officio Assassinorum agent. One of the recruiters that patrolled the Schola Progenium for talent. The Inquisition had them as well, and the two branches often butted heads over the choice Progena. There was much overlap between the skills required for an Inquisitor and an Assassin. It was amusing in retrospect. Many a hidden war was conducted as both attempted to kidnap a candidate days before Selection.

The only difference was the Officio Assassinorum gave a courtesy warning, and a chance to back out.

From that point on, you either perished in training, or joined the shadowed ranks of the Officio Assassinorum. He had backed out. There were no second chances.

But he had still become an Assassin. The tattooed V-825-09KL above his thigh attested to it. He dried off his hair, and looked into the mirror. Every Assassin had black eyes. It was a byproduct of the occipital augmentation, a process that increased perception speed and distance by over three hundred percent. His eyes were black, black as the Fenrisian night sky. Dark enough to make it impossible to distinguish where iris ended and pupils began.

It was how he saw himself in his mind.

But in the dream, his eyes were different. He couldn't remember the exact colour, but they were not black. It was disturbing, a sliver of the person he once was. The person he could have become.

He rubbed a scarred body, watched a lifetime of pale crevasses and gnarled keloid disappear behind synskin.

The suppressants were all but useless, his enhanced immune system adapting and deploying counter agents. The failures of the past week, the Exitus rounds, the meeting with Cinder, tumbled through his mind, compounding frustration and anger.

He opened a fist he didn't realize he was making. A cup of recaff would settle his mind, he decided, even though he knew it was a lie.

Not all Vindicare needed suppressants. Despite their efficacy at dulling emotions, and improving an already perfect aim, they also dulled processing speed. Suicide for any Assassin.

He pulled on his civvies.

It wasn't even a majority of the Vindicare that needed them. Far less than half, it was a select and hidden minority, of which he only knew two. Himself and the Lord Assassin that taught him.

It wasn't recaff he needed. But he went to the mess hall regardless.

︻┻┳══━一_

The cafeteria was full of cliques and groups, new friends and old, brought together by the team system. Team JNPR, and her sister team RWBY, sat together, consoling the blonde male on his newest loss. The Vindicare scanned over the grounds.

It was a melancholic sight.

He had seen them form in the Schola Progena, brought together by the dorm rooms. On the black ships to Terra, he was part of one, a group forged out of the common goal of survival. On the fields of Krall, in the Western Sector, he was privy to the thoughts of a squad of Imperial Guardsmen, as he marched with them to his next target.

Each time, he watched them be torn apart. Selection day for the Schola. Progena separated into their separate branches, and the galaxy was a big place. Most were never seen again. The black ships wore the Initiates down until he was the sole survivor. The Exitus Round went through each and every guardsmen he had shared amasec with.

Remnant was safer, but far from safe. The Vindicare knew that not every hunter-in-training in this room would live to see the next year. It was a fact of becoming a soldier. His eyes glanced across the room. Who would be the first to fall?

Probably Jaune, if he was being honest.

The Vindicare needed to interact with his team. Goodwitch had mentioned a "field trip", which appeared to be a simulated ground operation in a Grimm infested forest. And though it was far off, in a few months, there would be the Vytal Festival, analogous to the Blood Games that both the Custodes and the Assassins participated in every year.

The Vindicare doubted the Festival would be quite as dangerous. There was a reason the Blood Games were called the Blood Games, after all. The golden ichor of the Custodes, and the black blood substitute of the Assassins was spilt freely and frequently during those weeks.

Team GRWL needed to work as a cohesive unit. He looked around and found his teammates. He walked over. A mandatory training session a day would rectify the individual fighting styles that he had seen. From what he had seen, Russel's knife fighting was a beginner at best, and needed the crutch of both Dust and Aura to be effective.

It seemed to be the norm around Remnant.

He hated it. It worked as long as they had aura and dust. But, what if either ran out? Ruby would be unable to lift her weapon, and Weiss's rapier would be little more than a toothpick. There was a reason Assassins received augmentations after three years of training.

They needed to be able to fight without them. Many a electro-pulse weapon, and warp power could disable them temporarily, and revert them to their more mortal selves. Here, everyone used Aura with reckless abandon. Though only one example he knew existed, the nine rounds of shell-breaker, any Aura penetrating, or disabling, would make the hunters less than useless.

One thing the Vindicare noted was the attacking of the opponent's weapon, rather than the vitals. It made sense, though he abhorred it. Aura protected against damage, preventing wounds from hampering retaliation. It would be useful to strike the weapon, to either damage it, or disarm your opponent.

It appeared to be why so many had crushing weapons. A singular strike could both force the weapon out of someone's hands, and cause through pain.

Sky Lark was one example, wielding a halberd that also doubled as a rifle. Cardin was another, with his mace that could launch red dust.

Both used strength to rain blows from above. The Vindicare needed to train them to be faster, and to use smaller arcs that left less of the body undefended.

He located his teammates out of the crowd, and started to walk over. A training session every day should rectify the problems. He frowned, and noticed the three with a Faunus. A faunus with long ears. Cardin was pulling on the thing's ears, and it was close to tears. A second year student, if he recalled correctly. Why was it taking the abuse? It could fight back if it wanted to. In any case, he needed to talk to Cardin, and it was distracting them.

"What a freak!" Russel Thrush said.

He grabbed Cardin's wrist. The auburn haired boy let go, and the Faunus ran off. He turned to face his new opponent. His face turned to one of confusion as he saw Grey. The conversation the three teammates were having withered as they faced their team leader.

"What are you doing here?" the auburn boy said. "Can't you see we're having fun?"

He bristled under the synskin. Speaking back to a superior. Insubordination..

What was the first lesson that he had learned in Leadership so many years ago? He tried to remember his days in the Schola. Was it fear or abuse that spawned obedience? Some commissars used fear, namely executions to control the guardsmen. Some abused, using continuous group, and corporal punishment to maintain a level of subservience.

Maybe it was establishing a healthy relationship, setting parameters for what was accepted and what wasn't, to foster a brotherhood full of respect and true understanding of limits. No. Of course not. If he did that, people would think the Vindicare's name started with C and ended with CAIN, the hero of the Imperium.

Fear, followed by abuse, to maintain fear, though he doubted Ozpin would appreciate an execution. Plus, he only had three.

The Vindicare tightened his grip. Cardin blanched, but raised his aura at the point of contact. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Faunus watching the pair.

"We need to talk."

"What do you want? You practically ignored us all of last week."

Questioning a superior. A capital offense. How had he let it progress to this point? Incompetence was one thing. Insubordination was another. He tried for tact.

"Does it matter? I'm the team leader. I can do as I want"

The larger boy laughed nervously at first, and then started with more confidence. The other two laughed as well.

"Team leader? Well," Cardin began, "I've been thinking-"

He threw the Vindicare's grip off, and put a hand on the Vindicare's shoulder. Cardin smiled, predatory. No doubt believing he was victorious.

"We should have this conversation in private."

He pointed towards the nearby bathroom. The other two trailed behind the Vindicare. He recognized the ambush for what it was. It fit his purposes too.

"Of course."

The four awkwardly made their way past the cafeteria. As they passed, the Vindicare heard whispered conversations from team RWBY and JNPR. Yang and Ruby looked ready to fight, about to stand up. He gave a little thumbs up, and the two frowned and sat back down.

The door closed behind them. Russel locked it, and Sky smiled.

"We've been talking." Cardin gestured at the other two. "And we think that-"

The Vindicare boxed Cardin in the ear before he could finish, staggering the larger boy. He grabbed him by the pauldron, and jerked hard, sending the larger boy crashing into Sky. The two went down in a pile.

Russel gaped at him, and in that moment he drove a fist into the skinny boy's face, where the sinus met the left eye. The boy's head snapped clockwise. Stepping forward, the Vindicare kneed him in the testicles. Russel let out a high pitched shriek of pain and fell, clutching his groin. His aura was not depleted, but he would be ineffective for the next minute.

Cardin was rising, pushing Sky off of him. He was almost free, but not enough, and the Vindicare swept his leg out from under him, smashing his nose with a straight kick as he went down. Russel blinked, just fast enough to raise his aura to block a jab that would've taken out his eye. He squawked, and cupped it with his hands.

To his credit, Cardin recovered with an agility that belied his size, and threw a slow hook. The Vindicare ducked, and the punch glanced off his skull, sending a krak round off in his head. The Vindicare counterattacked with a hook, then an uppercut, and a jab that sent the boy reeling backwards.

Cardin's head hit the bathroom's wall with a crack. The Vindicare pinned him on the neck. He gurgled and scrambled at the hand that was strangling him. It wasn't the correct course of action. If he attacked then, he would have thrown the Vindicare off. But the lack of oxygen caused him to panic and he scratched futilely.

An elbow came from behind and wrapped around his neck, forcing him to unhand Cardin. The boy gasped. Sky must've recovered, he thought, as he buried his chin down to protect the blood vessels. He pressed on the elbow towards himself, and bit down on it, creating a point of leverage, that he used to pivot right and out of the grasp.

He stamped on halberd-wielder's feet. As Sky howled, the Vindicare grabbed him by the hair, dragging him forwards. With a flick of the wrist, he tore out a bloody clump of hair, and smashed the boy's face into a mirror. The glass broke, and the boy screamed, hands wrapped around his what was left of his hair.

The Vindicare touched his throat, feeling for crushing, and finding none. He walked towards where Cardin was kneeling on the ground. He grabbed the boy by the ear, dragging him so that he was eye-to-eye. The ginger groaned.

"I am the leader of team GRWL. Any questions?"

There were none.

"Good."

At this point, a commissar would have the men whipped, and one executed. The Vindicare was more merciful, though for other reasons. He dreaded what Goodwitch would say and do if he asked to borrow her riding crop.

He looked around the room. Russel was laying on the floor fetal position in a puddle of his own vomit. He whimpered as he made eye contact with the Vindicare. Sky was sitting against the wall underneath a sink, his hands wrapped around his head. Cardin looked to meet the Vindicare in the eye, and failed. The Vindicare let go and Cardin's head bounced off the ceramic tiles.

"Training is at 0500 tommorow in the arena. Bring your weapons."

Plus, he wouldn't want to traumatize them, would he?

"This incident never happened. If I hear you talking about it-" He relocated a finger. "I _will _kill you."

The Vindicare called the nurse with a scroll that was on the floor. He threw the scroll at Cardin's feet. Then he gathered himself and left the room.

Someone sobbed behind him.

︻┻┳══━一_

Team RWBY and JNPR watched him leave, and get a cup of coffee.

A few minutes later, the school's nurse and aide walked into the restroom, and carted out the other three. Russel was as green as his hair, Sky had a massive patch of hair missing, and Cardin stared outwards, not seeing.

Yang whistled. "Looks like you made friends in high places, vomit-boy."

Weiss grumbled.

"It's improper, is what it is. Beacon should not have students fighting in the restrooms!"

Yang turned. "Hey, speak of the Grimm."

Grey walked over, sat down by Jaune, coffee in hand. His hair was splayed in odd angles, and his clothes were ruffled. Yang elbowed Ruby in the side. The team leader made an indignant noise.

"..."

He didn't talk, like usual, though he had a strange fire in his eyes. It was off-putting, and warned against conversation. A warning that Nora either didn't see, or didn't care about.

"Didya break his legs?"

Grey turned and gave her an indecipherable look. Nora ignored it.

"You must be really strong to take on the whole team! We should spar sometime." Nora invaded his personal space, and pushed her face right next to his, in a sudden motion that surprised everyone except Ren.

"By the way, I've been dying trying to figure out a nickname for you. Do you want Grey-y or Titus-y?"

Grey's face scrunched up and he showed teeth. He looked ready to explode, and the table prepared for an outburst. What they didn't expect was what happened next.

Grey made a noise. It was more of a snort really, unremarkable from anyone else. The bell rang, and he stood up and left behind two thoroughly confused teams.

Ruby was the first one to talk.

"I-I think he just laughed."

Nora slipped Ren a ten lien bill, as did half the cafeteria who had watched the incident unfold.

︻┻┳══━一_

Classes went out without a hitch. Professor Oobleck rang around the room like a stimm addled Eversor, and blurted out a series of barely comprehensible sentences. It came almost as fast as the information the Vindicare had absorbed in the Officio Assassinorum.

He learned that the Faunus had night vision. He also learned that Jaune was as terrible at classwork as he was at the physical aspects. The poor blonde seemed to draw all of the ire from Professor Ooblek with the rest of team GRWl gone.

The three boys didn't come back to the dorm that night. It was a shame that it was the one time the room was silent since the Vindicare was not going to sleep anyway. He opened the window of his dorm and pulled himself onto the roof.

The Exitus Rifle was where he had laid it earlier, and he pointed the rifle at Beacon Tower. It was a perfect upwards trajectory. Steadying his breathing, he centered the optic on Ozpin's head. If the Vindicare pressed the trigger, he would send a two thousand grain projectiles hurtling at five times the speed of sound. The Vindicare didn't know the extent of the headmaster's immortality, but he doubted a little under two hundred thousand joules delivered to the cranium would benefit it much.

Alas it was neither the time nor the place to fire the Exitus.

He moved down. The headmaster was typing on a cogitator, and at a distance, the Vindicare could make out a few words. He seemed to be writing to one "Qrow Branwen", an agent of some sort. Qrow was on the case for the slew of dust robberies.

He focused further. Interesting, Ozpin was instructing him to stay alert, to find any possible "pawns". It was strange wording, a piece from regicide, and it had to be deliberate diction. He thought back to titles.

Salem was called the Queen of the Grimm. Another regicide piece.

There were no coincidences in his line of work, nor room for doubt. Qrow must have been looking for Salem's minions, though the Vindicare didn't know why she would need them.

As the Vindicare watched, he saw Goodwitch walk in, scroll in hand. Ozpin shut down the cogitator, and walked over, taking the tablet. The images were fuzzy, but the Vindicare's heart froze over.

It was a video of him attacking team GRWL. He snarled. He gave a warning to those damnable idiots. If he was expelled because of this, they would die. As he watched though, he realized the angle was wrong to have been taken. It was too high, and showed the tops of their heads, rather than their sides.

Taken by a mounted camera.

The Vindicare shuddered and vowed never to use that restroom for its intended purpose. Ozpin replayed the video. The Vindicare watched team GRWL fight. Five seconds later, he watched himself leave the room.

Goodwitch turned to address Ozpin. The Vindicare read her lips through the integrated auspex. The words she was saying were transcribed directly onto the scope in tiny block letters. After learning the language, he had transcribed a dictionary onto the weapon via the neural jacked spy mask.

"-need [undecipherable] monitor him more." It was inaccurate, and the text had many holes. Still it was better than doing it manually. The words chilled him. They had already been monitoring him? It was clear that Goodwitch did not like him, but as he thought back to the past weeks, he caught details that he didn't notice at the time. The way her aura swirled the air around her when he passed by. The wary side glances.

Ozpin was turned around, and the Vindicare was unable to read him as he stood up. What he said clearly agitated the other professor however, and the older woman frowned, before launching a verbal tirade.

"That piece of [Untranslatable, Possibility 56%, Curse] is hurting other students." She said, obviously upset. Even though he knew she must have at some point, it was funny to think of the dignified Glynda Goodwitch cursing in any matter.

Ozpin turned around, and stared out the window. The Vindicare felt himself tense up as Ozpin looked over his position. He knew that he would be unseen at this distance and light level unless Ozpin was a faunus, a theory the headmaster had failed to prove. The wrinkles on his face seemed to double. The headmaster spoke, and even at a distance, the Vindicare could make out the weariness in his speech.

"We need him on our side. [Indecipherable] other student that can take out an entire team."

Goodwitch said [Untranslatable, Possibility 64%, Personal name].

Ozpin shook his head and said something the Vindicare did not catch. He didn't catch it because at that moment, the door to the rooftop rattled. He slid down the side of the building, grabbing onto the ledge with one hand, and sheathing the rifle with another. A moment after he shifted so that he was holding onto the ledge with both hands, the door opened.

The Vindicare held still, knowing motion would attract attention to the pair of gripping hands. It was fine. He could hold on in this position for some time, and then pull himself back up when they were gone. It was better than the alternative of explaining why he was up there alone, and with a weapon in his hand aimed at the tower, no less.

"Pyrrha, I know I'm going through a hard time right now, but I'm not that depressed. I can always be a farmer… or something."

"N-No! That's not why I brought you up here!"

He identified Pyrrha and Jaune by their voices. It appeared Jaune's failures had finally gotten the attention of his teammate. The two talked, Pyrrha expressing worry at Jaune and offering to help him.

His nose itched.

Jaune disagreed and said that he had forged his transcripts. Huh. He never expected Jaune, the idiot, but generally a good person, to be the other student to fake his way into Beacon. How had he managed to find Junior, much less get Junior to give him transcripts?

The Vindicare listened to the rest of the story. There wasn't much else to do.

Pyrrha offered to help him despite the revelation. It was heartwarming, and the Vindicare wished that Jaune would agree so the two could go off, and that he could pull himself up.

Jaune gave a terrible explanation of how his entire family was a soldier before him, and how he didn't want help despite the fact he clearly needed it. Pyrrha tried to help one more time, but Jaune brushed her off. Finally, the Vindicare heard footsteps and he pulled himself up.

Right in time to catch Jaune as he was walking out. Jaune gave a high pitched scream.

"Grey!"

"Hello." He brushed himself off.

"Please, Grey, please don't tell anyone!"

The Vindicare could extort Jaune right now. Lien? Jaune was broke. As broke as him. Maybe have him do his homewor-. That was a terrible idea, and he couldn't believe he even thought about it. In the end, he couldn't come up with anything that would benefit him.

"Fine. But do one thing for me."

"Anything! Any-"

"Go talk to Pyrrha. You were being quite an ass back there."

The blonde blinked and closed his mouth, before walking backwards towards the exit, eyes on Grey. He bumped into the door.

"And if you need training, you're free to join my team's practices. They're at five o'clock in the arena."

He would be a useful training dummy. Jaune nodded again and then left.

After making sure he was gone, The Vindicare unslung the rifle from behind him, and looked towards the tower once more. The windows were darkened and the room was empty. He sighed. It was still early in the night. He didn't want to sleep. The threat of dreams loomed every time he was unconscious. There wasn't much he could do on campus after dark. The armoury was closed, as was the firing range. Most other students had already retired to their dorms to talk about the days experiences and laugh.

He doubted team GRWL would ever get to that point. The belated relationship had been established and it was strictly master-apprentice. They would fear him, and hate him, but mostly fear. The Vindicare would need to sleep with one eye open for the rest of the time.

He set the Exitus Rifle down beside him as he sat on the building's ledge. The rifle chirped as he placed a hand on it. The knife came out afterwards, and he pressed his palm to the blade edge, noting it was as sharp as the day he had gotten it. A thin streak of black blood trickled before stopping at the edge of his hand.

He looked up. The stars were out, and he recognized none of the constellations. He didn't miss Terra, nor its people. But it was familiar, and he reminisced all the same.

︻┻┳══━一_  
**Author's note: Bit of a shorter chapter. Still busy as all hell. I got a lovely PM about what would happen if the MC was a space marine rather than an assassin. **

**Long story short, Astartes are downright spastic in their downtimes, especially the more conventional ones when they are young, like the Ultramarines, who are augmented at a very young age, and have been shown to not know what children or normal food is. Also it would make for a very interesting sight seeing one of the Emperor's eight foot tall finest stomping around the streets of Vale. Also it would break a few plot points as space marines are trained in only war. Assassins have to be proficient in a thousand things along with the fine art of killing. I find this really interesting since in Nemesis, the Vindicare is chosen as the leader of the Execution force, showing that they are the most balanced of the classes, something that I am trying to show here.**

**Funnily enough, this is also told of the Custodes who were designed to be good at everything, not only warfare. They just happen to also be good at that. Go figure. Finally, a space marine MC would make shipping really **_**REALLY**_ **awkward since even though the space marine might be eighteen, he's also eight fucking feet tall. **


	12. Head and Heartache

**Chapter 12**

"One, two, three, four! Pick up the pace!"

Team GRWL ran. The Vindicare kept pace with them, watching for one to fall behind. It was a warm day, and the other three were panting, sweat dripping off their clothes and armour. Seeing that they were close to the courtyard, the Vindicare yelled again.

"Team halt!"

The three practically fell over. He had kept them running for half an hour now, and he knew that they were dehydrated, exhausted, and possibly suffering from heat rash. Aura protected against physical damage, and healed wounds, but did little for tiredness and muscle strain. Having them do it in full armour and gear certainly didn't help.

"Did I say you could sit down?"

The three forced themselves to stand up, swaying gently. None of them looked at him, instead staring at a distance away. There was fear in their eyes, but also anger. The Vindicare had to be careful the next few weeks with punishment and training. They would follow his orders, but if he was ever injured, they would turn on him like a pack of wolves. He needed them subdued, but not resigned, and never bad enough that the consequences of attacking him were less than the current situation. They would grow desperate, and he risked waking up to a knife in his back, or like many a trigger-happy commissar, a bolt in the back of his head.

Russel and Sky were not leaders, whether by his actions, or by nature. They followed, Cardin at first, the Vindicare, when he usurped him. If a rebellion was to happen, they would follow a leader. They shuffled on their feet as he passed them. There was only one possible candidate.

"Winchester!"

The larger boy flinched. He had been jumpy ever since the fight. When the Vindicare sat by him during lunch, he looked about to vomit. It was a funny thing. Bullies, especially those who tried to act tough, were always the most upset when the order changed. As far as the Vindicare was considered, Cardin was no longer a threat.

"What is the flight speed of a juvenile Nevermore?"

"Fif-"

The Vindicare's fist smashed into his nose. A passing student from another team gasped at the sudden brutality, and hurried away. Cardin fell, clutching his nose. He looked ready to cry, thoroughly broken. The Vindicare stared at him silently, not offering any answers or explanations to his sudden attack.

"Sir, Fifteen knots, Sir!"

Cardin figured it out in the nick of time. The Vindicare's hand was raised for another blow, and he let it drop.

"Lark!"

The boy straightened up. His hair was shaved to a regulation style buzz cut, with a section

"What is the bite force of a three year old beowulf?"

"Sir, Five hundred kilograms, sir!"

His scroll beeped in his pocket, and he raised it. Five minutes until six. He dismissed the team and watched them shuffle off.

Despite his displayed violence, it had been an effective training session. They had learned how to address a superior, what to expect out of future sessions, and even solidified their understanding of the Grimm. If it were up to him, he would've continued training into the weekend. RWL needed to learn parade marching, equipment maintenance, and callouts, among other things. Unfortunately, someone else had made arrangements for him.

He walked through Beacon. There was an eastbound wind, and it ruffled his hair. He sat down in the airship to Vale.

The Vindicare looked around for any familiar faces, and found Ruby standing by herself. She had headphones on so he didn't bother her. He had asked her earlier about the secondary penetrators, and it turned out they could be purchased specialty from a customs weapons store in Vale. He planned to visit them after.

He opened a message on his scroll.

_238 Eagle Red. Bring gear. _

︻┻┳══━一_

"What's with the mask?"

Torchwick looked like he usually did, with a freshly tailored suit and bowler hat. His cane was in one hand, and a lit cigar in the other. Around him was an unsavoury batch of gangers, dyed patched hair, and missing teeth. Most had stubbers in hand, but a few carried swords.

"You told me to bring gear."

The Vindicare waved his hand in front of the gun-metal mask.

"This is gear."

Torchwick snorted and looked him over. The Vindicare had donned the synskin suit for the operation, and the knife and pistol hung by his side. It felt good to finally have the mask back on, with its stream of information. He had retrieved it from Junior's Bar before heading to the address.

"Alright, let's head out."

The gangers grumbled, and got off the walls they were leaning against. Within minutes, the group began walking, weaving through alleyways and dark corridors. Torchwick's aura swirled around him, and the Vindicare followed it. Gangers surrounded him, too close for comfort.

"What's the modus operandi?" he asked, unsheathing and twirling the blade. The gangers backed off, eyeing the blade nervously.

"Nothing too fancy," Torchwick replied. "Pop in and grab the dust. We got a van nearby, and which we'll escape in if the heat comes."

The Vindicare nodded. A glass fronted store was to his side, and dust could be seen in the display aisles. Smash, and grab, seemed simple.

A scar itched underneath his mask as he pushed open the door.

The shopkeeper's mouth opened in greeting, but it petered away as he took in the new group. The Vindicare flipped the open sign on the door, as a ganger shut the blinds. The shopkeeper backed up and raised his hands. The Vindicare drew the pistol, and pointed it at the man's head.

"No sudden motions."

A ganger walked up behind, forced the shopkeep to a knee, and secured his hands. More of them fanned throughout the store, filled vials with Dust. They were trained, with the nonchalance and practiced ease that suggested that they had been through this procedure many times before. There wasn't much for him to do, save to stand back and watch.

They were criminals, but he admired their work ethic. If anything, he wished Team GRWL was half as organized.

Torchwick stood near the door, cane slung over his shoulder.

"Nice gang you got here," the Vindicare said.

Torchwick nodded. "These guys don't look nice, but get the job done. You got no idea how bad the old ones were."

"Red shades, and black suit?"

Junior's gang. The thief shot him a glance that was both a question and a signal of amusement.

"Had to take out a few," He paused, and lowered his voice, "How do you control them?"

Torchwick nodded, and pointed at the ringleader. He was young, but as the Vindicare watched, there was a tremor in his hand, and a twitchiness that never went away. He answered his own question.

"Drugs."

Torchwick smiled.

"They're do anything for it."

Effective when handling low-lives. Addiction to chemicals, power, or otherwise, was the single driving factor behind murders and heresy. Useful for information, and bribing, but he couldn't very well get Team GRWL addicted to narcotics.

It was far too expensive.

Torchwick's scroll rang. He looked at it and frowned at the contact info as he raised it to his ear. An instant later, he straightened up, and he took the cigar out of his mouth. "Cinder" he mouthed, and waved his hand over the store. The Vindicare nodded, understanding.

Torchwick exited through a side door, engaged in an animated call.

There wasn't much to do. The gangers were disciplined, and almost half of the display units had already been emptied. His eyes wandered through the store, scanning dust types, weapons, biometrics. Six gangers, one shopkeep, one behind the shelf…

One behind the shelf? A ganger was walking towards it. No doubt a civilian or-

"Not again!" The shrill voice carried across the room, freezing the criminals in place.

Seconds later, the ganger flew into the air, knocking down a shelf. The Vindicare blinked as he caught the red figure behind it. She pressed on a box she was holding, and it unfolded into a massive unwieldy weapon.

A familiar unwieldy weapon. Scythe. Fifty Calibre barrel.

Ruby's weapon.

"Huntress!"

The gangers recovered from their surprise, raised weapons, and bullets whizzed through the air towards where Ruby was standing. She flew, or seemed to, in a cloud of flower petals, before reappearing before a ganger.

The flat of the blade smashed into his face, and he crumbled. Another took a direct swing, and found himself flying through the store's window. An alarm sounded off.

The Vindicare cursed. It was going so well. As much as he wanted to leave the criminals to their fate, he knew that he had to stop her. She would chase after them if he didn't take care of her, and compromise his position in Beacon. And Torchwick had left the operation to him. He still needed the thief for his connections.

He sprinted.

Ruby turned to face another, and instead found the Vindicare tackling her into a shelf. He stabbed at her eyes, as he tried to put himself between the huntress-in-training and the criminals.

"Go!" He screamed.

The gangers stared for a second, but grabbed the dust, and ran off.

Ruby exploded into rose petals, and he found himself facing air. In his peripheral, he saw a massive scythe move at him faster than it should have been wielded. She moved like he did, which was a way of saying, with blinding speed.

_Warp, she's fast._

︻┻┳══━一_

He was fast.

Crescent Rose hit air as he sidestepped Ruby's attack.

Yang was going to freak out when she heard that her sister had managed to find herself in the middle of a burglary. Again. And charged in. Again.

This time though, the ne'er-do-wells seemed to be less organized, more rag-tag than the ones she had faced before. She was sure that she could catch them all this time.

At least until she got tackled.

The figure seemed to be shimmering as he brought a black sword across Ruby's face. Ruby dodged, feeling air brush her hair. The strange blade buzzed. There was something familiar about it, but she couldn't place it amidst the fight.

He fought wrong. A hunter would've stepped back, shot at her if he had a long range weapon. Which he did. There was a strange black pistol of unknown model on his hip, but he hadn't touched it.

The other gangers escaped as the two fought. Ruby slashed nonlethally, but the attacks were too clumsy.

Ruby slashed in a defensive arc. Instead of dodging, he rolled forwards, into her space, where she couldn't use Crescent Rose properly. His blade smashed into her stomach, and she gasped. He headbutt her in the nose, and then became all elbows and knees, and blade. Her aura was torn from her in ragged chunks, as he attacked.

She darted backwards with her semblance, transformed Crescent Rose. and fired off a few shots, all aimed at extremities. It stretched the definition of nonlethal, but it was much more survivable than a shot center mass.

Much more dodgeable too.

The masked figure weaved, danced, and then came in for another attack.

It would be impossible, unless he had an aura. Aura! A lightbulb went off in Ruby's head. The criminal must've gotten his aura unlocked at some point, despite the fact that it was illegal for everyone except aspiring huntsman.

There was no other explanation for his speed and strength. She was strong, the second strongest at Signal, despite her size and build. Ruby swung again.

Stepping forwards, he slapped Crescent Rose and all her momentum aside, and landed a high kick on her face. Confident in her assessment, she changed tactics.

Ruby flew backwards, but her hands never let go of the trigger. As she fell onto her back, she managed to squeeze out a shot. It was unaimed, but at that distance, it was hard to miss.

His head snapped back, and he tumbled across the floor.

That was weird. A hunter could've shrugged off that round. Judging by his training, he was definitely hunter level, maybe as strong as Uncle Qrow.

Too late, she saw his hand move, as she stepped forward cautiously.

Ruby was stopped by what felt like a sledgehammer exploding against her head. The room became colours, and she felt herself flying, flying, before slamming into a stone pillar. Stars danced in her eyes, and she blinked.

She heard a ringing in her head, shook it, before realizing that sirens were wailing in the distance. Her head swam, and as her vision cleared, she saw the figure running away.

Oh darn.

︻┻┳══━一_

The Vindicare staggered through the alleyway, and he holstered the smoking Exitus pistol. The right lense on his mask was ruined, and the visual display was dark. The destroyed sensors and microprocessors threw useless technobabble into his head, sending his thoughts into disarray.

He fell to one knee, and removed the mask. There was a massive bruised circle already forming on his face, and a deep lancing pain in his neck whenever he turned it. Ruby's round had done a significant quantity of damage. Something buzzed in his pocket, and he fumbled it out.

_Where are you? Police are on route._

Torchwick. He typed, the keyboard and characters swirling in his vision.

_Go on without me. Meet up later._

As soon as he hit the send button, he almost collapsed. He had a grade four concussion and had staved off unconsciousness through sheer force of will. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he found himself getting closer and closer to collapsing. A tremour passed through his left leg, and he dragged it behind him.

He still needed to exit the immediate crime scene. And he couldn't be seen by Torchwick in this condition. Too many questions.

A wall met his face, and his skin smeared across it. Blood ran down his forehead, into and out of his eye.

It wasn't far enough, but the nodes in his brain were beginning to sting, desynchronizing with his own biological synapses, causing convulsions to pass through his body. The arcane routes were shifting, attempting to address the issue. Remaining conscious during this was dangerous, and threatened to erase or permanently alter memories.

Still, he dragged onwards.

There was an echo with every movement, every thought he had, as the flesh tried to match the augmentix.

Using the last of his strength, he forced open a window, and crawled into it. His arms gave out, just as he slammed the window closed.

The world darkened, and the floor rushed up to meet his eyes.

︻┻┳══━一_

The boy blinked and stared around the room. It was Selection Day, and for once, the mess hall was silent.

Daig didn't speak to him, instead picking at his pimple ridden face until it bled. There was an air of malice, general discomfort and paranoia that couldn't be placed. A final trial lay for every candidate, and many were studying from holoslates.

Striving Tempestus Scions practiced drills. Sororitas read from prayer books, and whipped themselves into a religious fervor, sometimes literally. Jenias rubbed his shoulder, and looked into his eyes.

He could tell that she was worried. There was a ship bound for the Ultramar Segmentum that was leaving in one month, and with their saved income, they had managed to purchase one cargo space. Escaping the ships of the Commissariat and Sororitas would be difficult but not impossible. First years were the ones to run. No one expected a third year, much less one on the brink of graduating. Thus, security was lax, and the candidates were given a free day out. One step at a time.

Before then, they still needed to pass. Sergeant Renus had been uncharacteristically evasive when asked what exactly the final test was, and the boy felt a pit of nervousness in his stomach,

He tried to smile, and failed, but Jenias laughed at the effort. The tension dissipated, if by just a bit.

The bells rang, and Jenias gave one more squeeze, before walking away. Her hair trailing behind her, she looked beautiful, more beautiful than he had ever seen. He could see their shared future, and despite everything, he managed a true smile. Jenias caught his eye, and smiled back.

The hallways were empty as the third years seperated. The Tempestus Scions went to something called a "Hallucinarium". Future commissars separated, Daig going one way, and he another. It was a part of the school he had never seen before, much less entered, but he showed no fear as he opened the door with a number plate out front. There were no windows, and it was dark inside, making it impossible to determine how large the room actually was. The door slammed closed behind him

"Candidate, please step forward."

He did so, and the lights turned on and focused on him. His eyes adjusted and he could see a Commissar in front of him, barely lit, all shadows and edges. He saluted, crisp and sharp as he had been trained.

"At ease, Candidate."

He stood at parade rest. The Commissar held his transcript out in front of him, and appraised him up and down, as he read through the papers.

"Tell me something, Candidate"

The boy injected confidence into his voice that he did not feel.

"Sir, yes, sir."

"What is the purpose of the Commissariat?"

It was a trick question, one that the boy did not necessarily know the right answer to. They led guardsmen into battle, but were also proficient themselves in a variety of skills including diplomacy, tact, and coordination between the various sects of the Imperium. He settled for the safest answer.

"Sir, the purpose of the Commissariat is to fight the enemies of Mankind, sir!"

The commissar nodded again, and his eyes wandered back down to the transcript in his hand.

"A textbook answer, Candidate, and you will find it to be true," he set the papers down, and set his eyes on the boy. He was never a fidgeter, but felt himself being unraveled under that steely gaze. "Now, who are the enemies of Mankind?"

"Sir! The enemies of mankind are Xenos, Heretics, Mutants, and Traitors, Sir!"

"Another textbook response. But you will find that the textbook was incomplete."

Reaching into his undercoat, the commissar drew a bolt pistol and set it on the table. Though the barrel was pointed away, the boy felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck, and soak into his uniform.

"There is another, more insidious enemy. It is insidious because it is not malevolent, and you will find it in no short quantity." He set a magazine onto the table. "Incompetence."

The Commissar picked up the weapon, reloaded it, and pointed the weapon at the boy. He didn't scream, but not out of any free will. His muscles were too clenched to allow him to. The Commissar either didn't notice or didn't care, and set the weapon back on the table.

"Candidate. You stand before your final Test of Compliance."

The boy didn't move. The Commissar chuckled but there was no humour in the laugh.

"You may pick up the pistol."

He did as he was instructed, and felt the weight of the weapon. It felt good, with a weight that suggested robustness rather than clunkiness. The Commissar watched him, before pressing on a button on the table.

"We've monitored the progress of each and every Progena on campus. Yours was exemplary, though there was a drop off near the end."

A hololith lit up the room with flickering green light, and showed a face. A face he recognized all too well. His knees weakened, and he almost dropped the weapon..

"This one, has shown themselves to be incompetent, and thus wasted valuable Adminstratum resources on her training."

His mouth was dry, but torrents of sweat poured out his arms, and stained his uniform. The realization of what was to happen crashed down on him.

"Jenias Aliah has been sentenced to death for her transgressions against the Imperium of Man, and thus the God Emperor herself. Your final test is to execute her. "

The boy's world came crashing down.

"No," he croaked out. The Commissar's face hardened until in the green light, it no longer looked human.

"The decision has been made, and either you kill her, or someone else will kill you."

It softened just a fraction, as he remembered his own test, the one he had cut down.

"Candidate, do so, and you shall join the ranks of the Commissars, Emperor willing. She is currently sitting in Room Three Nineteen. I trust you will make the right decision. Dismissed."

The boy felt his legs carry him, with the cursed bolt-pistol by his side. As soon as he was out, he crashed down, the pistol clattering to his side. Hive instincts screamed at him to continue, to do as the Commissar said. His life was more valuable than anyone else's, save the Emperor. Other emotions swelled over them, and a sob escaped his throat.

Three years earlier, it would have been strange to think that he was feeling this way for another, a noble, for Emperor's sake.

Jenias. His best friend. His love.

A lie, he had almost tricked himself into believing.

Her life over his own. His mind over his heart. One won, as it always did. It won when he stabbed his brother to death for a blanket, at the tender age of five. He begged and begged, but his legs carried him onwards to damnation.

The journey was short, but felt longer than the marathons he had run in training. Room three nineteen was before him, and he pressed on the doorknob. The wood turned.

He stared forwards, at the person inside.

"Nicias?"

That was his name, the name he carried for three years, the name of the son of the planetary governor back on his homeworld. Son of a noble, destined for greatness. Only the orphans of nobles were accepted into the Schola Progenium.

Another lie. He was never Nicias. They died on the hive-world, torn apart by the Orks.

He was never meant to make it this far. His parents were hiveworld scum, and died when he was young in a fight with an Arbitres. He was forced out into the streets, and scraped by his own luck, and skills he paid dearly for.

Then an Ork invasion hit, and he used every single one of them to live. He crawled through the septic pipelines to end up underneath the palace. The gates were barred for all save the immediate family of the Governor.

It ended up becoming their grave. An artillery shell found its way in, and reduced them all to mincemeat. Amidst the rubble, covered in refuse, a Commissar had found him, assumed him to be Nicias, and that was that. He had thought himself the luckiest soul in all of existence.

And then he had met Jenias on that ship. And his life was turned upside down.

"Nicias? Are you alright?"

The girl stood up, and looked at him. Something in his posture, or the weapon by his side threw her off. He raised it, put his index finger into the trigger guard

Jenias looked surprised but didn't scream. He wished that she would scream, try to fight him, and he could put a bolt in her head. Instead, she stared, as she did when she first met him. The same look, except now they were older, but none the wiser.

She took a deep breath, and forced a smile, tears falling down her eyes and onto the rockcrete below.

"I thought it was weird when the door locked behind me," she said. "Even more when nobody came to talk to me. It's your test right? Kill me?"

She closed her eyes, but he wished she didn't have to be so considerate, even when looking death in the eye.

Scream! Attack! Anything! He tried to will his finger to move, just a centimeter, but it was frozen in place.

"Do it, alright? At least one of us will make it out of here."

He tried to make words, to apologize, but his face was a solid piece, the vocal cords unyielding as a solid chunk of ceramite. The pistol lowered, and he forced himself to take a breath, knowing he couldn't shoot. Something moved behind him, but he didn't register it, didn't care about it. It was only Jenias and himself on the world, in the galaxy.

He raised it again, and he knew he could do it. His finger moved, free from the spell it was under.

A staccato shot rang out.

︻┻┳══━一_


	13. Supply Chain

**Chapter 13**

Jenias fell, red flying into the air. The boy turned, turned to find Daig, standing behind him, bolt pistol in hand, wide-eyed, mouth open. Daig's hands were shaking and it was impossible to determine who his target had been.

He collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. The boy looked down, found the smoking barrel of his own weapon. He dropped it, ran to Jenias's side.

Her eyes were glassed over, skin pallid and sweaty with blood loss. She tried to reach out, and failed. A pool of red was underneath her head, and stained his hands, his clothes. There was blood coming out of the side of her neck, and even as he tried to apply pressure, he knew, knew that she wouldn't live.

"It wasn't me. It wasn't me, it wasn't me, wasn-"

Jenias bled out as he repeated the mantra over and over. He couldn't tell if she heard, but he thought he saw the faintest wisp of a smile. And then she died. He sat down, and didn't move beside her. Daig's body was still. The room was still. He didn't know how long it remained like that.

Had it been hours, or days? Days or weeks?

It ended when a black figure opened the door, and let in light from the hallway. The boy looked up, expected the Commissar, wanted to shoot the Commissar, and was already aiming when he instead found the Officio Assassinorum agent. His face was granite, and there was no compassion in the outstretched hand.

That hand was death, destruction, and endless missions against enemies as vast and unthinkable as the stars. But the boy wasn't thinking about that. Jenias was dead, and there was nothing left for him.

He took it.

︻┻┳══━一_

The Vindicare woke up with a pounding headache, and a sharp crackling pain that came from everywhere but couldn't be pinpointed.

He was on a bed, though he couldn't imagine how he had come to be in a be-

Colours exploded into his vision, and he grabbed his head. Another wave of fire rushed through his nerves. The room turned ted, then blue, and then finally the dark it was.

When he opened his eyes again, the headache was still there. However, the fire was receding, and he could move again. He opened and closed his hands, felt the slightest tingle, but nothing more. The augmentix, and cybernetics must've recalibrated when he woke up. He looked around as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

The memories of the previous night flickered through his memory. Fighting Ruby, taking a fifty to the head, and running. He had crawled into a building just as he went unconscious. There wasn't enough time then to see if it was safe, much less comfortable.

Someone had maneuvered him into the bed, despite the fact he had basically broke into someone's house.

The room was dark, and filled with a massive quantity of books. Books were strewn everywhere, on shelves, the ground, in unmarked paper boxes. His "bed" was a blanket thrown on a rectangle of books. There was a glass of water by it, and he took it and drank it down. His own gear, the destroyed spy mask, the Exitus pistol, and the knife were on a towel by his side. They had obviously been touched, taken off him. He still wore the synskin suit, but that was probably because it could not be taken off easily by anyone but him.

He brushed the spy mask off, sighed, and shook his head. Putting it on was dangerous, as the murder-cogitator was no longer being actively contained. The damage done by the fifty had rend through the primary holding cell, and let the liquid metal drip into the rest of the mask. The containment scripture was well written, but given time, the wrath code would break through.

The fact that his equipment was present calmed him down. His benefactor had wanted him to feel safe, whether out of misplaced belief in their own abilities, or underestimation of his.

He rearmed himself, and walked up to the windowed door that was the only way out. It would've taken a few hits to knock it down, but as he placed his hand on it, he had a feeling it was unlocked.

True to his thought, it opened outwards. It was evening, and the red light of dusk streamed on more books. Backwards and through the glass in the front, he read the characters, "Tukson's Book Trade. Home of every book under the sun!" The Vindicare doubted the authenticity of the statement, but there were a significant amount of books in the store, ranging from Schola texts, to more esoteric graphic pornos.

"Hey, you're awake!"

The Vindicare tensed as he turned to face a heavily muscled man with hazel eyes, and sideburns that wrapped around his face. Seeing his confusion, or lack of any reaction, the man further responded.

"I'm Tukson." He waved a clawed hand around his shop that was named after him. "Found you here this morning, and moved you to the back. You were hurt pretty bad there."

"Thanks. I'll go now."

The Vindicare moved to leave, but Tukson stepped in front of him. Tukson's eyes narrowed, and he dimmed the store windows. Was the Vindicare a prisoner after all? His hands roved downwards, around the utility belt where his weapons rested, to prepare for any combat. What he was not prepared for, was the question Tukson asked.

"You're White Fang, right? That's how you got hurt."

"..."

The Vindicare wanted to respond no, but something, amusement, incredulity perhaps, kept him from speaking. Tukson put his hairy palms out in a pacifying gesture.

"It was the night vision. You couldn't have done it otherwise. Don't need to say anything, just putting it out there. I'm Fang too."

Luscus Faunus given Tukson's characteristics. Extra hair growths, and claws instead of nails. If he was one of the abhuman terrorists, he would have information on the group. Information that the Vindicare could exploit, if he pretended to be an insider.

"I am."

"Thought so," Tukson sighed, then talked with the speed, or lack of, that signified that he was choosing his next words very carefully. "Have you been keeping up with recent activities?"

The Vindicare nodded again. He had seen the news, a slew of bombings and robberies. By the way Tukson was acting, the wolverine faunus was not a fan of the recent criminal development. The Vindicare gave his own opinion.

"For the record, I don't agree with them."

Tukson relaxed, his claws subconsciously retracting.

"Thank the Gods, I was afraid you would be one of the rabid ones."

"No," the Vindicare paused, and tapped himself on the eye, where the bruise was beginning to drain and turn into a dark green. "Met a huntress on the latest mission. Got hit. Remembered the address from the Fang member book. Ran here until the heat died down. "

Tukson nodded.

"Didn't want to go to the hospital because of the risk. Smart. Though I can't imagine how you managed to break in with a massive concussion."

"Trade secret."

"Got a few of those too. Be careful out there. Shit's getting messed up. Have you ever thought about leaving? The Fang, I mean."

The Vindicare paused. A turncoat? Interesting. Impossible among the ranks of the Officio Assassinorum, but legions of lesser men had been tempted and converted to either the Ruinous Powers, the Greater Good in the Eastern Segmentum, or desert before a heated battle. The White Fang must've not kept tight enough tabs, or stirred enough fanaticism.

The Vindicare recalled his Lord's advice on weakness.

Find and exploit.

He pushed the conversation.

"I would, but they kill deserters to the cause."

It was an educated guess. One that had landed. Tukson looked outside, and then back at the Vindicare. His eyes were haunted, one of someone hunted. The Vindicare gave his own advice.

"Hypothetically, if I was, I would buy a ticket to Vacuo. The desert has plenty of places to hide if you're careful. No given name, paid for in cash."

Tukson gave a more earnest smile.

"Of course. Now you wouldn't know where to hypothetically get said ticket would you?"

The Vindicare smiled back. "Better than that, I can make you a deal. You give me this shop, and I'll give you the ticket. I have a few contacts."

An extra safehouse was always beneficial, especially since Torchwick, and more dangerously Cinder, knew the location of the other one. Tukson snorted.

"Hmm. Better than just leaving it here I guess.

The Vindicare thought about it more.

"I also need your Fang masks, and a few books."

"Won't need them where I'm going. Help yourself."

That was everything.

"Deal?"

The Vindicare extended a gloved hand.

"Deal."

Tukson took it with a hairy one.

"Also, I need the location of a Fang base. I sort of forgot them. Head injury."

He tapped himself on the head again, and pantomimed a heavy hit. Tukson looked at him strangely.

"All six?"

There were six? No rest for the Emperor's augmented.

︻┻┳══━一_

"So what does he look like?"

"He doesn't exist!"

Velvet's face was bright red as the rabbit faunus grabbed a number of dust vials. Coco followed close behind, a few belts of ammunition for Gianduja on her shoulder. She smirked and pointed at Velvet's face.

"I don't know~ Your face is telling me otherwise. Come on, you got the photographic memory semblance. I know you know what he looks like. White hair? Brown? Is he blonde? You always had a thing for blondes."

The two walked up to the store counter. There was an old man working on a weapon behind it, and he looked up and smiled, crow's feet deepening around his eyes.

"Ms. Scarlatina, Ms. Adel! What a pleasant surprise. Didn't expect to see you two this soon."

They both smiled back as they set their purchases down. Ruddy, the owner of the store, had been around for as long as they could both remember, making custom rounds and weapon alterations for professional hunters, and those still in training.

His store wasn't fancy, but was of the highest quality. Ruddy himself, an amiable ex hunter obsessed with weapons, and more than happy to help, sealed the deal. His hair was grey, and there was a layer of fat under his face, giving others the impression of someone permanently happy. Ruddy had taken a liking to Velvet, partly due to her unique camera.

For a picture of a weapon, and the hard light copy, he would give her discounts, and free merchandise.

"Yeah, R-Man. Got a project next week, and wanted to stock up."

Ruddy grinned, scanned the ammunition and Velvet's dust, keying the price in for hard light. As Coco fished money out of her purse, she teased her teammate further.

"C'mon, at least tell me if it's a guy?"

Velvet nodded in a meek manner, ears dropped over. Ruddy noticed the exchange and smiled, a lifetime of experience in it.

"Oho! Does Ms. Scarlatina have her eyes on someone?"

"N-no-"

"You bet. But I can't seem to get who out of her."

Coco handed the lien over. Ruddy counted it, and chuckled.

"Let's try a different angle. Why do you like this fine gentleman?"

Velvet looked like she wanted to deny more, but she relented.

"He helped me out when I was being bullied and I guess that-"

Coco tensed, and a frown appeared on her face. Ruddy was similarly displeased, and his eyes darkened.

"You were being bullied? By who? I'd like to have a few words with them."

Coco held her handbag very tight.

"Y-you don't need to. He helped me, and I guess I liked him for it?"

Velvet shook her head, and her ears stood up straight. Coco loosened up, but poked Velvet's face.

"You're not supposed to fall for someone just because they did the right thing. He's hot, isn't he?"

"Yea-No!"

Coco laughed, and Ruddy joined in a moment later.

"Don't worry about it Ms. Scarlatina. Your secret is safe with me." He handed them their receipts. "Though, now that you've peaked my curiosity, what does he look like?"

"Black."

Coco's smile widened to shit eating proportions.

"Black hair, or eyes?"

"Both, I think?"

"Oh you naughty bunny, you have been checking him out!"

Velvet's blush darkened, something that should've been impossible without sacrificing blood in the lower body. A bell chimed behind them, and the front door opened. Ruddy looked past their shoulders before back at the two teammates.

"This individual wouldn't happen to be tall, wields a massive gun, and has a few scars across his face would he?"

Velvet looked like a deer in headlights. Or a rabbit.

"EH?!"

︻┻┳══━一_

The Vindicare checked the address on his scroll before stepping in.

Ruddy's Custom Weapons and Repairs was written on the glass, and he pushed the door open. The store was located in a side alley in the industrial district, away from where most people would stumble upon it. It didn't look the part, like the gilded workstations of the Magos Artisans in the Officio Assassinorum, but he was never one to judge on appearance. He was, after all, a walking deception.

After heading over to Junior's bar, changing into civilians, and grabbing the rifle, he decided to go check on Ruby's suggestion.

The bell tinkled as his eyes adjusted to the dark inside. The store was messy, with fasteners, ammunition, and Dust dispensers in various states of disarray. He stepped over a pile of screws, and walked over to the front counter. There was a faunus nearby, a pair of ears on her head. The arrangement and biology confused the Vindicare as much as it did when he had first found out about the extra extremities some Faunus possessed. Did she hear out of the top pair, or the human pair?

Probably both. Faunus had better hearing, and he had seen a few wearing normal headphones on campus.

Did they develop during the embryonic stage, or during adolescence? They were obviously non-human, but he couldn't identify the exact animal that the long eared Faunus was derived from. What was that tidbit of information the Vindicare had learned during Xenos biology class? Something about Eldar ears being packed with nerve endings. He wondered if the same principle applied here.

They would be a painful point during a spar, or if he ever needed to non-lethally take down a White Fang for interrogation.

The faunus rang behind a girl wearing a beret that was also in the store. It was a ridiculous gesture if it was, but the Vindicare felt like she was hiding from him. Beret girl snapped her fingers, eyes wide in triumph.

"Hey, I know you! You're the one that surrendered to that other first-year, Bang, or Yang or something!"

The Vindicare winced on the inside. That was probably not half as subtle as he thought it was at the time. Oh Emperor, what if all his actions were like that? What if was known around campus as the strange one that beat his team? Tact had never been his strong suite, most of his problems, or future problems solved with a single well placed and timed bullet. He resolved to have team practices held at night, when there would be less people around.

How many hours did a baseline need to sleep? Was it two, four or six? No, it couldn't be six, that was far too long. Nothing would be accomplished. He returned to the conversation at hand.

"That was me. You're a student? Haven't seen you around often."

"Yeah, wouldn't think so. I'm a second year. We don't mix often. Coco Adel."

They shook hands.

"Grey Titus. What about your… Friend?"

The faunus was standing away, pretending to read a magazine. The illusion was ruined by the fact that it was upside down.

"Oh don't mind her. She's just needs a little nudge from time to time."

Coco grabbed the faunus, and wrangled her towards him. The abhuman struggled, but it was futile, and at the end, she glared at Coco, her ears drooped over, in front of him.

"Hello. What's your name?"

"V-velvet. I'm Coco's teammate."

She looked familiar though he couldn't place her. The face and features were matched somewhere in his eidetic banks though he couldn't bring it to light. It must've been knocked deep by Ruby's fifty. In any case, it was obvious she didn't want to talk to him. He nodded, and looked at the artisan that sat at the counter.

He was aged, as gracefully as seventies, early eighties could, with no evidence of rejuvenate treatment, or nerve damage.

"I heard you're the best blacksmith in town."

He laughed.

"That's what they say. Old Ruddy. Been at this nearly thirty years now. Do you have something particular you're looking for?"

"Custom rounds."

The Vindicare handed him the scroll, with the Exitus ammunition specifications on it. Everything was detailed as best as he could. A heavy metal projectile accurate to the micrometre from a kilometre away. He was forced to sacrifice some aspects, as Remnant's technology level just wasn't high enough to reliably produce some components, but the main product was the same, if less high tech. Should be producible. His hope was dispelled as Ruddy held the scroll out, put on a pair of spectacles, and then laughed.

"Sonny, have you been reading too much sci-fi? Magnetically sealed flux needle? Hardness scale of eleven? I think Atlas Tech Weekly just came out with an article about research. Just design your weapon? I can help you redesign it, if it's fine with you. It's just not practical. I can do the secondary penetrator, but with this much pressure, I don't think anyone else can."

"I know it can be done."

The artisan laughed again. "Yeah? Show me, and I'll catch the nearest airship over and shake the engineer's hand."

The Vindicare unslung the rifle from his back, and ejected the magazine. Clearing the chamber, he put a single Turbo-Penetrator round on the table. There were only six of them left, and he cherished each and every one.

Ruddy smiled, as he took the round, and looked at it underneath a microscope of some sort under the counter..

"This a prototype? Give me a second."

The Vindicare nodded, and looked away. The two girls from earlier were whispering, the human urging the Faunus to do something. Coco pointed at him, but Velvet was shaking her head. After a moment, the Faunus walked up to him.

"H-hey, just wanted to say thank you."

"You're welcome?"

What had he done? He felt like he had Villager/Space Marine syndrome. Like the axiom said, to a mortal, a space marine saving their planet would be a hallowed story to be repeated for the rest of their life. To a space marine, it was a Tuesday.

But he wasn't an Astartes, and he couldn't remember ever helping someone. The two stood in silence, the only noise being Ruddy tapping the round, and gasping. Even to the emotionally stunted sniper, it was awkward.

Velvet's ears drooped, and she turned bright red.

"Igottagodosomethingsomwhere!"

She ran off. Coco facepalmed, and pinched her nose between her hands. Ruddy put the round down, and looked at the Vindicare with something close to awe.

"This is amazing! I haven't seen anything like this ever before. Who made this?"

The man's reaction was expected. An Exitus round was one of the highest technologies the Imperium could procure. It was said that each round possessed a machine spirit equal to a Leman Russ, controlling gyroscopes, stabilizers, and matter destabilizers automatically. During the Dark Age, an Abominable Intelligence had perfected them. The Tech Adepts didn't understand it fully, but could make more.

He hoped Ruddy would do the same.

"A friend in the industry helped me design it."

"Well, next time you see him, give them a kiss for me. I can't make out details, but that sabot, how did you lock it inside the round?"

"Its backwards magnetically lock-"

"Yes, Yes, I see it now. It's brilliant! It provides stability to the flight path, and when the round impacts, the sabot is propelled forwards. Amazing. How far can this go? Five hundred millimetres homogeneous armour?"

The old magos was practically salivating as he talked to himself, and his eyes were dilated. The Vindicare decided not to say that it was closer to a thousand millimetres. It might've given him an aneurysm.

"Can I take it apart?"

The Vindicare nodded. The round was irreplaceable, but if Ruddy could reproduce an inferior workable version, it was well spent. He went to offer a word of caution but Ruddy had already carefully separated the bullet from the cartridge.

"I don't think Atlas can create something like this. I don't think anyone can! Hmm. Why'd you use this propellant?"

Ruddy scraped a little of the compacted octanitrocubane onto the table. The Vindicare winced at the callous handling, even though he knew the synthesized chemical was highly shock resistant.

"Dust was too variable and slow. I needed it to be more reliable."

"Alternative propellants. Always loved to read about them." Ruddy shook his head violently, "Too much damn dust on the market. Always thought it stifled research. Can you make more?"

Master of a thousand crafts, and perfect at one.

"Yes."

"Gods, an engineer. Love it, love it. Can I see… the gun?"

He stared at the Exitus rifle. The Vindicare paused, protective, and then unstrapped it. The old man had shown himself to be obsessive, but trustworthy thus far. Nothing in his actions or demeanour had proven otherwise. He thumbed the gene lock runes off before he handed it over. Ruddy watched him with bright feverish eyes, and took the gun with care, more care than the Vindicare himself used. The Exitus was more robust than some took it for.

Ruddy looked at him for approval, and he gave a nod.

"What do you think?"

Ruddy disassembled the rifle before the Vindicare's eyes, putting each piece down on the table. It was meticulous, but experienced, and in seconds, the rifle was before him on the table.

"What do- I think you're either a genius, or insane." Ruddy picked up the barrel, the bare accelerator rails around it. "Railgun? You really need a railgun with that bullet? Grimm, kid, how fast does the round go?"

"Mach Five."

Ruddy looked the Vindicare in the eyes, suddenly serious. "There's something called overkill, you know?"

Exitus was used in a galaxy where a fully automatic supersonic seventy-five calibre Astartes pattern bolter was standard fare. It needed to be able to disable vehicle sized threats, whether Tyranid bioform, or chaos Daemon, in a single shot. The Vindicare thought about the things he had hunted on Remnant. Most Grimm could be handled with one round.

What about hunters? He had shot Ruby. She had been disabled, but not killed. How much damage had she sustained? A little less than three quarters of her aura. The pistol was weaker than the rifle. Aura would deflect the rifle round, making it less than lethal.

"One shot, one kill. I designed it around that."

Vindicare doctrine. Ruddy cackled, and reassembled the weapon.

"Sonny, I can assure you with half this, you could kill three with a single shot. What's your followup? The recoil has to be monstrous. What if you miss?"

"I don't."

"Love the confidence. But what if you-"

The Vindicare stared him down, and enunciated every word.

"I. Do. Not. Miss."

"Hoo-kay." Ruddy put his hands up. "Alright, you don't miss. What if you were ever caught without the gun? Lots of things get up close."

"I shoot them with this."

He set the Exitus pistol on the counter. Ruddy looked at it and back at the Vindicare. His eyes were glassed over.

"How in the… Did you… Did you make a miniature version?"

The Vindicare nodded.

"Same round, smaller components in the gun."

The pistol was even more difficult to make than the rifle for this reason. Only the most skilled tech-adept could disassemble it, let alone create it. The Vindicare himself couldn't.

"Same round?! Holy light, how do you have wrists?"

"Well, not the exact same round. I remove the booster."

He pointed to the extra cap at the end of the Exitus rifle round. "I also have the knife." He drew it.

Ruddy blinked.

"That's a sword."

"It's one sided. Ergo, knife."

"Welp. Uh. What did you want again? Sort of got caught up with all this."

He gestured over the small arsenal on the table.

"Ammunition."

"Ri-i-ight! I don't know. I'll have to do some custom work, and reverse engineer the other bits. But I think I can."

"How much lien?"

"Serious? First one's on the house. It's been two decades since I've seen something new. This is going to be as much entertainment for me as it is an order. Actually, speaking of reverse engineering, SCARLATINA, YOU STILL HERE?"

He shouted across the store. Some time later, Velvet appeared, Coco close behind her. What they were doing, the Vindicare had no idea.

"Can you do your thing with this?"

Ruddy held up the Rifle. Velvet stepped forward, gave a glance to the Vindicare. He didn't know what was happening, but he nodded. She held a box in front of her face.

As he watched, the box opened up, with a glass optical in front. A flash later, Velvet looked into the front screen. Even though the Exitus was beautiful, the Vindicare didn't see how a photo would help. Ruddy waited patiently.

Velvet frowned.

"Huh. This is taking longer than usual. Wait, here we go!"

A blue light appeared in her hands.

"By the Omnissiah!"

It was Exitus, minus a few bells and ends, like the scope and silencer, but the Exitus nonetheless. Velvet smiled, and tried to maneuver the copy. In his, the Exitus was massive. In hers, it looked ridiculous, and she struggled to keep it upright. The Vindicare's amusement was offset by the sheer bizarreness of seeing two of the one-of-a-kind weapon.

"Hey, uh, can you show me how to use it?"

"You see the trigger right there? Press it."

Velvet blushed. "No, I mean, like-"

Coco laughed.

"What the sexy rabbit is trying to say is, assume the position."

By Velvet's mortified expression, that was definitely not what she was trying to say. He was about to state that when Coco resumed speaking. Ruddy handed him the original weapon as Coco explained.

"I'm sorry, she's just so fun to tease. Velvet here has photographic memory as a semblance. Just show her proper form, and she'll use it like an exact copy."

He crouched, and braced the weapon against his shoulder. Flexing his entire lower body, he ground himself into the floor, and put his left leg behind him as support. Anything less, and he would go flying backwards.

"Is this enough?"

Coco looked at Velvet. The faunus nodded. Ruddy made a come along hand gesture, and the three went downstairs to an indoor range. It was about fifty meters long, padded on all sides, and with multiple firing booths. Velvet walked over to one, and put on two pairs of ear muffs. That answered his earlier question. Coco and Ruddy did the same.

As the Vindicare watched, Velvet matched him movement for movement, until she was in firing position. It was uncanny, the way she shadowed him. Though, there was something that was missing.

"Just going to run a little test here." Ruddy said. "Want to see what it can do.

"Go for it."

Velvet's stance was perfect, a mirror of his. An exact copy. The phrase rang warning bells through his head. Something was missing. He'd found himself forgetting something for the third time since the fifty smashed his head. Like a cobweb in his head, it stuck to him, giving him the thought that something was going to go wrong. Something about the Exitus, and the way he fired it. Had he done it earlier?

Her finger moved down.

He tried to push the ominous feeling down, he was overthinking it. Why should he? The Rifle didn't overthink. He was a component of the rifle. Therefore, he didn't overthi-

Too late, the Vindicare realized his mistake.

The gene-lock! He had turned it off as he handed it to Ruddy. If Velvet's camera made an exact copy, then the Rifle would explode when she tried to fire-

The room turned into light.

︻┻┳══━一_

**Author's note: THE END. Just kidding. Just a little bit of fluff here to counteract the last chapter. I have three cases stacked back to back, two EB5s and one EB1, and I need to finish translating and filing the paperwork. I'll still manage to churn a chapter out once every five days, but won't have time to comb through for grammar. If you see a mistake, just post it in a review, and I'll try to correct it in my sleep deprived form. Also, I've gotten two reviews asking about what the aura measuring machine is doing, even though I already explained it so I guess I'll reexplain here. The machine is measuring the Vindicare's health. Think FPS mechanics. That's why he surrendered, because he didn't want to get seriously hurt. You might think 80% is relatively high health, but in real life, that would be 20% dead. That's hurt pretty bad. Most people never recover from injuries that bring them below a certain threshold. Think losing an arm.**

**Anyways, thanks for reading, and see you in five days.**


	14. Test Run

**Chapter 14**

Hard light, to be exact.

The electro-containment fields of the hard light fractured into shards of electromagnetic energy. As the pieces flew through the air, and impacted various items, they disintegrated into blinding flashes of light.

If it had happened one hundred meters above, it would've made a beautiful parade display. In the confines of the indoor firing room, it was disorienting. Coco and Ruddy both cursed as brilliant blue shards impacted them.

Should someone other than the Vindicare use the Exitus, the weapon would close its barrel, and discharge each round in the magazine. A safety measure on each Exitus Rifle, it ensured that number one, the weapon could not be used against the Assassin themself, and number two, each customized weapon was useless once the Assassin was dead.

The safety could be disabled for short periods of time should the Vindicare allow it. He had forgotten to. Normally, the explosion would tear a baseline human's arms off, and shred their entire torso.

Velvet took the brunt of it, flying backwards. The Vindicare moved, catching her before her head impacted the ground.

"Fuck, is everybody ok?" Coco said, her hair in a violent spray. She coughed and brushed concrete dust from her uniform.

"I'm fine." Ruddy tapped on his hearing aids and looked around the room. He met eyes with the Vindicare. "What happened?"

"No idea."

The Vindicare's ears rang but he had no arms to rub them. The replication process must've been nigh perfect to be able to replicate the gene lock the Exitus had. He declined to state the fact that he designed his gun to explode.

"I'm OK." Velvet said.

"Well, no harm, no foul." Coco looked at her and smiled. "Though you look better than OK."

"Huh?"

An ear brushed into the Vindicare's face. It was soft, more like human skin and hair, than the rough cartilage and coarse fur of an animal. She smelled nice, the faint scent of coffee, and wasn't all too heavy. He'd marathon ran with heavier. Still, it was rather too personal for the Vindicare.

He breathed out, and whispered into Velvet's ear.

"Hey, can you get off now?"

The faunus shivered into his arms. It was a strange reaction. The explosion must have affected her more than he had initially thought. He tried to relax his arms, but she grabbed tighter. He set her down, ensuring that her legs were not only touching the ground, but also supporting her weight, before letting go.

"Are you alright?"

Velvet didn't answer.

He moved her face and looked her into her brown eyes. The pupils were dilated, a sign of shock. Had the explosion hit her past her aura? That had never happened before in anyone else. Hunters, and huntresses-in-training kept their aura wrapped around them at all times. The worst injuries were mild concussive injuries that healed by the end of the day. His thumb slid across her cheek as he examined her.

Velvet closed her eyes.

Coco started laughing.

"Dude, mother of daring, buy her dinner first!"

"Huh?"

Velvet seemed to come out of the trance she was in. Her eyes shot open, darted around the room, and then settled on his face for a second. She turned bright red. A moment later, she ran out of the room, fast enough to become a motion blur to even the Vindicare's eyes.

"Ah fuck. Welp, Grey, it's been a pleasure! Cya!"

Coco ran after the faunus. The Vindicare stared at the dust cloud left in their wake, and then looked at Ruddy.

"Don't look at me. I've been running a weapons store for thirty years without a Mrs.."

Ruddy sighed.

"Damn, was really hoping I could see the mechanisms work in your gun. You sure you don't know what happened?"

The Vindicare shrugged. Ruddy swore again.

"Can you still make the bullets?"

Ruddy grinned from ear to ear.

"Son, I guarantee I won't sleep until I do."

︻┻┳══━一_

"Holy hell, you're alive. Thought you didn't make it with the radio silence."

Torchwick looked up at him from his spot on the couch and put down the cigar in his mouth. His cane was in his hand and there was a cup of amasec in the other. Around him in an abandoned warehouse, gangers were pouring dust into boxes, and marking them with descriptions. It was the location Torchwick had told the Vindicare to meet up at.

It was a large-scale organized operation, with Neo as taskmaster, sitting on a stack of boxes, and pointing at various locations and people. Gangers flinched where her finger roamed. Turning around, she waved at the Vindicare.

Having recovered from his sudden appearance, Torchwick resumed smoking,

"What took you so long?"

"Had to take care of the huntress and escape the police. Took me a while."

"Huntress-in-training." Torchwick corrected, and then gave him a side eye. "Not the real thing. Any hunter would've wiped the floor with either of us. Not the first time that brat has caused me a lot of grief." "You didn't kill her, did you?"

"No. Didn't need more heat on me."

"Thank the fucking gods. Can't even go out these days without getting ID'd. Can't imagine what murder, and murder of someone with aura, would do to me."

The Vindicare walked over and sat down on the couch. It was too soft, and he imprinted into the cushion. The Exitus pistol dug into his side underneath.

"Want a drink?"

Torchwick shook his glass.

"Sure."

"Bottle's over there. Help yourself. And here's a little lien for your trouble."

He tossed a bundled block of lien. The Vindicare counted it as he walked over to the amasec bottle. Thousand and five hundred. Enough to stem him over for a short period of time for supplies. Pouring himself a generous portion, he turned to address the thief.

"Isn't it a little early to be drinking?"

"Aren't you a little young?" Torchwick shot back. "Considering you're attending Beacon and all that."

"Hmm."

"Certain lady is coming over soon. Guessing she wants a run-down of what happened. This…" Torchwick raised a glass, "Keeps me sharp."

That was not what ethanol did, but the Vindicare was one headache and fifty cal too many to explain the depressant properties of alcohol. Neo jumped down, twirled her umbrella, and joined the two. The Vindicare hadn't noticed before, but the tip of her parasol was heavier than the rest of the wooden handle, revealing the presence of a hidden blade.

She winked, and then downed the rest of the bottle. No lost love between the two.

"When does Cinder get here?"

Neo tossed the now empty bottle down, pulled out her scroll, and then pantomimed putting on a pair of spectacles. She raised six fingers.

"Six o'clock?"

There was some time left. Neo shook her head.

"Six minutes?"

"I believe she was trying to say six seconds."

The trio turned around, catching a red dress and amber eyes. Torchwick groaned, and Neo went off. A moment later, a ganger screamed in pain as a wooden instrument struck him across the head.

"Cinder," Torchwick said, as if the word would ward her away.

The Vindicare nodded.

"So, are you going to tell me why your name was on the midnight news last night?"

Despite her coy, seductive smile, Cinder's eyes were hot anger, as if they were about to burst into flames. The Vindicare felt the familiar tic of psi energy try to run through him. Despite the fact that both aura and semblances had to use psykik energy somewhere, his hair only rose when it was Cinder.

"Well, you see-"

"Actually," the woman continued, "I want to hear his take on it."

She faced the Vindicare. His gooseflesh rose on the back of his neck.

"Not much to say. Met a huntress."

Cinder focused back on him. He met back her fiery stare with his own cold Vindicare gaze. It was one he had perfected on Terra while waiting for his first assignment, and revealed neither emotion nor movement. Cinder matched the intensity with a thin line for lips. A moment later, she smiled again.

"Did you kill her?"

"No. Didn't need the entire VPD on me."

"Shame. I was expecting more of Roman's protege."

Cinder looked over at the boxes of dust and clicked her tongue.

"Despite your shortcomings, you are on schedule. I trust that you'll find the amount we agreed upon in your account."

Torchwick was savvy enough not to check his scroll in her presence. He nodded warily.

"So what's the deal today? You never just visit."

Cinder pressed a hand to her chest in mock hurt.

"You wound me. Do you dislike my presence so much?"

She showed a perfect leg. Neither the Vindicare nor Torchwick dared to look at it.

"But yes, I do have a little task for you." She pulled out a scroll and set it on the table. "There will be a SDC shipment at Dock Thirteen in two weeks. I want you to intercept it."

Torchwick glanced at it and then back at Cinder.

"Docks going to be guarded. Atlas'll send guards that we'll have to take care of. It'll be loud. And I don't have enough men to hold the VPD off and cart the dust off."

Cinder nodded.

"Precisely my thoughts. I have arranged for support from of our more… Primitive friends."

"Fang? Shit, I don't want to deal with those idiots."

The Vindicare looked at him.

"I thought you said you had big plans for them."

"Yeah, I _had._ Thought they could replace Junior's gang." He scratched his head, through the bowler hat. "Turns out terrorists aren't the most stable bunch. Had a few try to martyr themselves on the first raid." He looked at the Vindicare's confused look. "You weren't there."

"Yes. The Vale branch is wanting in some aspects," Cinder looked away in contemplation. "My own are addressing some grievances."

"Surprised they aren't here. Green's practically your shadow."

"Emerald is is loyal. Which is more than can be said about your own."

Torchwick ignored the barb.

"Alright, so we go in and White Fang helps. We still need a caser, a spotter, an escape vehicle, and overwatch during the operation."

Cinder looked at her fingernails.

"I have a few bullheads on standby. I will grant you access to them for dust extraction."

"I'll handle overwatch."

The two criminals looked at the Vindicare. It was an important role, calling out positions of enemies, the arrival of arbitres, and eliminating them silently if necessary. More importantly, it was safe, and the Vindicare would not need to risk bodily harm.

"You need a spotter?"

The Vindicare shook his head.

"Great, guess that's done. We finished here?"

"Want to be rid of me so quick?"

Torchwick smiled, but there was no humour or good-will in his eyes.

"Only an idiot would take his eyes off you, Cinder."

"Charming. I'm sure I will see you all soon. And Grey?"

The Vindicare looked at her.

"Do keep in touch. I have something I need you to do."

︻┻┳══━一_

"What do you think about it?"

Glynda looked at Ozpin like he was insane. Even after working for the man for nearly a decade, he was as inscrutable as the day she had met him. Except for the sudden loss of hair colour five years ago, Ozpin didn't look like he had aged a day. He carried his cane with the same ability, and moved as surefooted as any active hunter.

"You know exactly what I think."

"Yes, yes. Either expel, or arrest Mr. Titus. Preferably both. But do you think of my idea?"

"I believe it has… merit."

Ozpin sighed, and pushed his glasses up.

"I know how this must look to you, but you must realize that I have been fighting against her for a very long time. Either she has changed since I last met her, or Mr. Titus is the most incompetent pawn she has ever fielded."

He brought up a student profile on his scroll. Various notes and file links were gathered on the page, detailing the entire life of Grey Titus from morning to night. He woke up at promptly 5:00AM, exercised until breakfast, attended classes, took lunch, attended more classes, and then abused his team until 11:00PM, the final bedtime for first years.

Rinse and repeat. Occasionally, he visited the library, the armoury, or the computer lab.

"Despite being either sociopaths or possessing a blind almost religious loyalty, Salem's agents are charming, well adjusted, able to make and manipulate new friends. Mr. Titus is none of these."

He watched Grey bring Cardin to his knees with a throat punch, and then shout into his ear.

"And the entries for the books he has checked out from the library makes no sense if Salem had already briefed him of the existence of the Maidens, or the Relic."

"He could be trying to mislead us."

Ozpin brought up the library log.

"I thought that also. But Grimm migrations? A History of Children's Fairy Tales? Grimm Reproduction? I must mention that the aforementioned book should be removed as soon as possible when Ms. Belladonna returns it. This is much too on the nose, and would attract attention. If Salem wanted subtlety, this is the exact opposite of what she would tell her disciples to do."

"He's trained."

"He's trained wrong. Salem emphasizes stealth and trickery over direct confrontation. Mr. Titus has used some elements of subterfuge, yes, but none of the other."

"But he is trained."

Ozpin placed a packet of instant hot chocolate into his thermos, added water, and then put the concoction into the microwave.

"That is a mystery I have yet to solve. I would think the rigidity and antisocial activities to be Atlas, but Ironwood's warning was genuine. And his office was targeted. Then I thought about the more fringe intelligence agencies the kingdom still has active. But Mr. Titus has not received any calls or packages. This is either a deep infiltration, or Grey Titus is a rogue agent."

Glynda scoffed. The microwave beeped.

"It isn't as unlikely as it sounds. I have seen many an agency that trains their operatives not to communicate with anyone except their handlers. They demonstrated the same issues that Titus has, as well as his skill range. A skill range, I must remind you, would be very useful."

"Fine, let's say that Titus is not one of Salem's. Why would he be so interested in the Maidens? Why the Relics? Why the Grimm?"

"Perhaps that was his last order before his agency went down. Perhaps he took it up onto himself. The truth is, we don't know. But I do know this; we need to figure his motives, and establish contact. Go through with the Forever Falls plan."

He pulled up a live stream, a black haired man walking through the streets of vale.

"And we need to do it before anyone else."

︻┻┳══━一_

The bullhead to Forever Falls was silent, and a heavy gloom fell over the entire interior of the ship. There were two teams on the airship, GRWL, and some other freshman team the Vindicare recognized but didn't know all too well.

He had upped the training until the regiment incorporated all of the team's free time, normal lunch hours, in preparation for the trip. With the occasional minor misstep, GRWL could follow orders, establish perimeters, and read hand signals.

Their varied weapons made it difficult to coordinate a deep strategy without more study, but Sky and Cardinal were pointsman, with Russel supporting either wherever needed. The Vindicare would provide overwatch support. It was too open to interpretation, too many variables that could go wrong. The team's weapons and armour were nonuniform, making it difficult to have an established plan for contact.

At the first chance, the Vindicare would make lasguns and train them in their use.

They touched down, RWBY and JNPR in the other ship. Jaune threw up into a bush with Goodwitch giving a long lesson about what to do and where they were. Forever Falls was a Grimm infested forest, appropriately named, with most, if not all, of the forest's trees a vibrant red or range. To the Vindicare's surprise they were actually evergreen but in the colour red.

The task itself was simple, and seemed suspiciously like a supply run. Gather jars of sap, one for each team member. The cafeteria had been low on syrup for the past few months.

He detailed out the tasks.

"Growl two, establish a perimeter. One and Three, carry out the main objective."

"Sir!"

Russel drew his weapons and scouted around. Cardin inserted a long hollow spike into a tree, and a few moments later, Sky put a jar underneath. Slowly, a purple liquid began to flow out.

Or rather, ooze. They were going to be here a while.

Turning to hear a cough, he saw Jaune's face break out into red hives. The blonde leader must've been allergic to the sap. Pyrrha was looked at him with concern, trying to rub the sap off, and instead smearing it across more of his face.

His scroll rang, and he looked up to see Goodwitch giving him a side eye. She turned away. There was a ping as the call ended abruptly, replaced by a text message. No Caller ID or voxmail.

Opening it, he found a pair of numbers. He recognized the coordinates for a map and entered them into his scroll. A search later, they revealed a location close to his current, a few hundred meters deeper into Forever Falls.

His team fulfilled the mission as he contemplated the cryptic message. A location close by, with no caller ID? Was this the favour that Cinder needed? He looked at Cardin and Sky. They were distracted, but it didn't matter anyways. They knew not to speak up.

Making sure Goodwitch was looking the other way, he slipped away from the team. The terrain was passable, and he walked across a leaf covered floor. The Vindicare loosened the knife as he got closer, making sure to keep his emotions even and his breathing still to detect any Grimm. Finding none, he continued.

A ruin jut out of the forest in a clearing. The stone was mined bedrock, crumbled with age, and a thin mossy covering over it. There was a nevermore in front of the entrance, and he impaled it to the rock it was standing on.

The entrance was dark and covered in vines that he cut away. Confirming the location, he stepped inside. His eyes adjusted in a heartbeat, and he came face to face with a number of carved runes and glyphs on the wall.

_Long ago, there was a kingdom. They prospered across the lands, with none in its path._

They were part of a story, and while some pieces were missing, it was easier than the textbooks he had seen before. The bastardized High Gothic here was almost legible, familiar but not perfect. His brain hiccuped as it continued on, as some words made no sense in his High Gothic, but worked in Remnant's. It raised more questions.

How did Remnant come to use the Merikan dialect? They must've split from the Imperium a long time ago, before the Old Night, before the Great Crusade. The linguistic drift was strong, expected after twenty thousand odd something years, but undeniably Terran in origin. There was something else, ancient graffiti, but far more recent. It was a segment chipped away at the side, damaging the original text. This was written in Cadian Lower Gothic, and signed with a stone inscription.

His heart stopped as he recognized the symbol.

The letter "I" with a skull through it.

The Inquisition.

︻┻┳══━一_

**Author's note: I have an overarching story and plotline going on I swear. It isn't a red herring. I'm currently back from China on a business trip, with no time to write fanfiction there except during meetings and client meet-ups. That would've been a terrible conversation.**

"**Hey Avocado, what you writing there, notes?"**

**Yes, notes, definitely that. The trip also made me have little to no sleep while twelve hour jetlagged and fighting off a cold. That's why this chapters so short and took so long. Thanks, and as always, if there is a mistake, tell me and I'll fix it up as soon as possible. **

**Also, I've been thinking of some ship names. Vindicare + Velvet, Double V, or more appropriately shamelessly stolen from somewhere else, CrossHares. See you in five days. If you want to help me with this project, I'm looking for a beta reader. Just shoot me a DM.**


	15. Bonehead

**Chapter 15**

Even the name of the organization sent chills through his body. The Inquisition was the hidden left hand of Terra, a fragmented organization that was as unpredictable as it was powerful.

Inquisitors answered to none, interpreting the Emperor's will as they saw fit, with the common goal of saving Humanity, by all means necessary. A dangerous occupation, many consorted with Xenos and Daemons alike to further their purposes. Most bore a strong dislike of the Assassinorum, the Astartes, the only that could question their verdicts and bring judgement for their sins.

The Vindicare had executed a handful of Radical Extremists. One believed himself to be the Emperor's divine will made manifest. The other that the Aeldari, not the humans, were the Emperor's chosen. Something about "Biig titee Eldar."

Those were the hardest assignments he had ever undertaken, each with a small army of bodyguards and specialists between him and the marque. The heretic had a concave of enraptured Sororitas more than happy to put a round in him. It was an operation better suited for either Eversor or Callidus.

The mission briefing had stated that there was a vantage point on the ship with a direct shot to the Inquisitor. What the mission briefing had failed to point out was said Inquisitor was on a different ship entirely, choosing to forgo the capital ship in his fleet for a less conspicuous one.

The briefing had also failed to mention said vantage point was in said Sororitas's communal shower. After escaping an entire room full of screaming wrathful Sororitas, the Vindicare was forced to commandeer the ship and set it on a collision course with the other, before venting himself into deep space.

An Assassinorum extraction team picked him up months later in biostasis with the last of his rescrubbed oxygen supplies.

The Xenos consorter had a Howling Banshee as a partner. How the relationship had come to be, the Vindicare spared no heretical thought.

It had taken every ounce of his skill to sneak onto the Penitent Scholar, the Inquisitor's personal battleship. Taking a stance in the hold, he waited for weeks, watching voidsman pass barely a meter from his position.

As the moment of murder drew nigh, and the couple made their way, the latent witch psykana of the Eldar detected his presence. The Inquisitor's life ended in a flash, the Shell-Breaker round destroying his personal shielding and leaving no time for the displacer field to activate.

An instant later, the Aspect Warrior was upon him.

She severed his Exitus rifle in half with her runespear, and tried to do the same to his face, managing to pierce the spy mask and bite into his flesh. Fortunately, the moment resolved itself in the Vindicare's favour and he was able to put down the Xenos with a well placed pistol shot. The Exitus was replaced and the Vindicare's face healed in time, albeit with a scar.

An Inquisitor had been here before. Another member of the Imperium at large. The Vindicare's spirits soared, or as much as they could. There was no evidence that the Inquisitor had made it off world, and by the age of the graffiti, and even with the best cybernetics and rejuvenat, no possibility that they were alive. The low gothic read Ophelia Three Sixty One. The Inquisitor's name? The three sixty one was a strange addition, though it could signify the three hundred and sixty first to bear his name in particular. Peculiar, that there would be so many of them in a family line. As he walked around, he found no evidence of a body nor spent weaponry, save for a singular human skull.

The Vindicare had almost missed the dusty thing until he kicked it, shaking off the white dust of the cavern and revealing the stained yellow of bone. Picking it up, he noted that it was heavier than centuries old bone should have been. He tapped on it. Instead of the hollow dullness of ossum, it rang with the sound of machinated metal.

He noted more irregularities. There were rusted dendrites extending from the foramen magnum, where the spine entered the skull. An optic and sensoria system was installed in the left eye, directly into the bone.

The bone hadn't healed afterwards, suggesting that the system had been installed post-mortem. He would've believed it to be burial ritual if not for the grav-pads near the bottom.

He recognized the robotic device for what is was.

A servo skull. Utilized by many for a myriad of purposes. It was an honour to be so loyal and useful in life that one was chosen to continue service after death.

He pried the drone's head open to reveal engines, a power pack, and a number of logical processors. The owner had forsaken the cheaper and more effective organic cybernetics for ones purely abiotic. An expenditure to make it last longer.

This model could've done anything from record conversations to combat reconnaissance. If outfitted properly it could've been the Inquisitor's familiar. That would be a useful tool. Even if it did not possess the vast information an investigating Inquisitor would have, it would be a useful ammo mule or scouting device, especially since he lost the spy-mask.

The power pack was dusty, and had been empty for ages. With the standard rate of discharge and chemical degradation, it wouldn't have charged even if he could give it an electric current.

He disconnected and tossed it out. Taking a wire adaptor from his suit, he transferred power directly into the components. The synskin armour had energy to spare.

A minute later, the optic flickered, before broadcasting a dim red light that barely extended his hands. Age had damaged the machine thoroughly. If he removed the machines from the bone casing to prevent undue surprise, Ruddy could probably repair i-

"**HELLO!"**

︻┻┳══━一_

Glynda's face was neutral. Years of teaching had in turn taught her to not react to anything a student did or said.

That being said, it was the first time she had seen one desecrate human remains, and she struggled to keep any sort of reaction out of her face. As students collected sap in front of her, she stared at her scroll with a mix of confusion and disgust. Grey had stumbled upon the ruins as originally planned, but instead of reading the mural, he picked up a skull, and promptly began fiddling with it, the ridiculous gun on his back.

Her only salvation was the lack of audio. She didn't want to hear what depraved thoughts, or worse, noises, Grey was making. The child was not normal. Even without the knowledge that he had faked his way into Beacon, she would've disliked him.

It was like watching a robot with skin. He wasn't awkward. Awkward implied that one didn't know what to do. Grey knew exactly what he wanted, and what to do in any interaction without any teenage awkwardness. Even when she chastised him, she caught no nervous tics, no stammering or stuttering.

He could display, or fake emotional responses. It was just that…

More often than not, he didn't bother. She had seen him act normal, sometimes in Vale, others when talking with members of team RWBY or JNPR.

Otherwise, when he talked, he stared, black eyes that didn't move or waver. Even during spars, when he took a blow, his eyes concentrated on the opponent, and never left. It was discomforting, and as many students found out, incredibly creepy. Even the normally boisterous Peter shied away. Not a surprise that not many people interacted with him outside of his team.

_What's he doing now?_

Ozpin's message dropped down from the top, interrupting the live feed. Grey's image jumped back as the video quality stuttered.

_The same thing. _

The deputy headmistress texted back. Dismissing the image, the artificial night vision of the cameras centered back on Grey. He was waving the skull around, and appeared to be in an animated conversation with it. She shuddered.

_Has he looked at the mural?_

The recording faltered again.

_Ozpin. I don't think he even notices there is a mural. He's talking to the skull._

There was a pause as the recipient read the message, before responding.

_Can you give him a nudge in the right direction?_

She should throw him in the right direction, far away from Beacon Academy, and poor team GRWL. He was working them worse than Atlas boot camp. Instead, she sighed. Ozpin and his plans.

_How so?_

_I was thinking that you could use your semblance and push him subtly towards the wall._

Ozpin had to know that her semblance only worked in direct eyesight. Did he want her to get closer to that bone fetishist?

_That isn't subtle at all. What if he sees me?_

_You're the teacher. Just make up an excuse how you went to find him._

_Remind me again why we can't just reveal ourselves?_

_Qrow's on a field operation. No details yet, but he thinks Salem might be up to something. We have to play our cards close. I don't think Grey has the hallmarks of a pawn, but people and more importantly, tactics change. The point being we don't know if we can trust him._

A pause.

_Additionally, what's the worst that can happen?_

Ozpin, the immortal wizard, for you. Glynda shook her head and looked around. The children looked bored, no doubt thinking the exercise to be a supply run, which it was. The cafeteria had somehow managed to go through a hundred gallons of syrup in a single month. Cook had screamed about some "Valkyrie drinking it." With money being saved for the festival, funds were too low to purchase more, and thus Beacon was forced to collect its own.

It had been easy enough to mask it as a field trip, though the purpose was far harder to state. Teamwork was what she would state to any student foolhardy enough to ask. No one had. The forest was safe, or as safe as it could be. Most Grimm were young, small, and manageable even by first years.

They could handle themselves for a short period of time.

_What's the worst that can happen? _

︻┻┳══━一_

After calming down his hearts, the Vindicare found himself with a talking skull in his hand.

"**HELLO IMPERIAL CITIZEN, THIS IS SERVO SKULL 085-3A, IN THE POSSESSION OF INQUISITOR FARROW. PLEASE STAND BY."**

The voice was loud, the machine trapped on a deafening volume. Farrow? Wasn't the inscribed name Ophelia? The aperture closed on the optic closed with an audible click, and the cogitator inside the skull began whirring.

"**UNREGISTERED BIOSIGNATURE. PLEASE ENUNCIATE THE AGREED UPON PHRASE FOR UNREGISTERED BIOSIGNATURES. YOU HAVE THREE REMAINING ATTEMPTS. FAILURE TO COMPLETE THESE ATTEMPTS WILL RESULT IN DETONATION."**

A password?

"This is Vindicare Eight Hundred and Twenty Five, of the Ninth Killer Lances. Inquisitor Farrow has been dead for an unknown period of time. Readjust mission parameters."

"**NEGATIVE. VINDICARE EIGHT HUNDRED AND TWENTY FIVE OF THE NINTH KILLER LANCES IS NOT THE CORRECT PHRASE. YOU HAVE TWO REMAINING ATTEMPTS."**

V-825-09KL sighed. He should have known better than to argue with the machine spirit of a servo skull. He was hoping that the skull was one of the more intelligent ones, with a fragment of the original owner's intellect and a degree of independence.

Inquisitor Farrow had placed the skull here with a password that he expected someone to guess. But what was the passcode?

"**DUE TO A FAILED ATTEMPT, THIS UNIT WILL AUTOMATICALLY DETONATE IN ONE MINUTE."**

Wonderful. The fuel cells were empty, but there had to be explosives packed inside somewhere. The Vindicare did not want to see what the explosion of millenia old and forgotten Imperial tech would look like.

Passcode. What was the passcode?

Farrow had to think it was easily decrypted. Otherwise the servo skull would murder whoever touched it next. Inquisitors were murderous but not insane. What was in the cave?

Sand? Ruins?

The inscription!

"Ophelia, Three Sixty One."

The skull whirred once more.

"**NEGATIVE, OPHELIA THREE SIXTY ONE IS NOT THE CORRECT PHRASE. YOU HAVE ONE REMAINING ATTEMPT. REMINDER, THE PHRASE IS TWO WORDS."**

That didn't narrow it down at all, and the Vindicare was always one to look a gift Ferus in the mouth.

"**DUE TO A FAILED ATTEMPT, THIS UNIT WILL AUTOMATICALLY DETONATE IN TEN SECONDS."**

"**NINE."**

Ophelia? What was Ophelia known for? Oldest Cardinal World. Main base of the Order of the Sacred Rose. The base of the Ecclesiarchy. Three Sixty One? What was the significance of three sixty one?

"**SIX."**

"You skipped a few numbers."

"**WOULD YOU LIKE "YOU SKIPPED A FEW NUMBERS" TO BE YOUR RESPONSE? THIS IS YOUR LAST ALLOCATED ATTEMP-"**

"No!"

"**RESUMING COUNTDOWN."**

The three sixty first sister of battle was not renowned.

"**THREE."**

Neither was three sixty first street.

"**TWO."**

Three Sixty One. Three Six Zero One. Where was that number significant? It had to be known. Was Inquisitor Farrow a madman after all? No. The Vindicare did not want to die yet. The mission was incomplete. He would scour the warp in death, if he died with a failed mission.

"**ONE."**

Scour. Scoured the Imperium? Near the Age of Apostasy?

"Goge Vandire!"

The machine processed.

"**CORRECT. DETONATION PROCESS CANCELED. BIOSIGNATURE ADDED. YOU MAY NOW USE THIS UNIT FOR SANCTIONED PURPOSES. EMPEROR BLESS."**

Goge Vandire.

The three-sixty-first Master of the Administratum.

During the thirty-sixth millennium, he attacked the planet of Ophelia during his reign of terror, and beset the Imperium with cruelty and violence that had not been seen since the Horus Heresy. His name was common knowledge then.

After his death, the records were purged of his cursed name, and in the forty first millenium, he was only remembered by a few scholars, the Assassinorum, and the Custodes.

"**THERE ARE FIVE PRECORDED MESSAGE ON THIS UNIT. DO YOU WISH TO PLAY THEM NOW?"**

"Yes?"

The Vindicare looked down on the skull that was still in his hand. He laughed.

All this time and stress, and he could've just thrown the damn thing away!

"-**OW: **Warp, this thing's loud!"

The voice was Cadian, common gothic. Instantly, the Vindicare felt a sense of kindredship with the unknown Inquisitor. Only idiots and blue bloods used High Gothic to appear more sophisticated.

"Where was I? Oh, right. Personal Log One. This is Inquisitor Farrow, currently stranded on Remnant. Escape pod came out of the Immaterium and touched down here. My retinue must've landed far away from this damned place, as I can't raise them on comms."

Sounded like what had happened to the Vindicare.

"Situation under analysis, but appears to be manageable. Oxygen levels are breathable, and local flora appears to be edible. Must've been seeded during the Dark Ages. No sign of Imperial transmissions. Will update as the situation progresses."

"**END OF MESSAGE."**

The robotic voice of the skull returned, but it failed to kill the elation the Vindicare felt. Dead or not, another Imperial had been in his situation. There was hope of recovery back to Terra.

"Play the next."

A series of panting breaths was heard, followed by the crashing of underbrush. A second later, a bolt pistol round sounded off.

"Inquisitor Farrow. Personal Log Two. Change to past evaluation. Local fauna are extremely aggressive, and much more resistant to physical damage as their base species would indicate. Possible Xenos or Daemon infestation, judging by dermal and carapacial discolouration. Signs of primitive human civilization south. Heading there now."

Farrow had encountered the Grimm. A testament to human durability that the people of Remnant had survived for so long, constantly besieged by the forces of Chaos. Primitive human civilization? Current Vale was less than Terra, with all its eons of history, but far better than most in the Imperium.

It must've been less developed back then. Farrow would have detailed the old Vale in the next log.

"Play the next."

The skull was silent. It hadn't heard his command.

"Play the next."

The skull remained silent.

He checked his power connection, and then the skull itself. The red optical was unpowered, but when he looked into the skull's mechanicals, there was no fault. Disconnecting the power output, he began to look at the skull more thoroughly. After a little while, he felt a tingle in his general body.

Cinder?

He turned, expecting to find an attractive mature raven haired woman with amber eyes. Instead he found an attractive mature blonde with green eyes.

Goodwitch.

As his brain processed what seeing the professor entailed, a sub sector wondered while he usually referred to students by their first names, and everyone else by their last, Cinder retained her first name. Probably because Fall was much less poetic.

"Hello, I was just finishing-"

He waved the skull.

Murdering and skinning someone? Desecrating remains? Hallucinating?

"I swear this isn't what it looks like. The skull can talk."

The servo remained silent. The Vindicare smiled sheepishly in a manner that suggested he had gotten lost. Goodwitch didn't seem to buy it, and her face contorted into one too complicated to decipher. He thought he caught a glimpse of horror and disgust.

"What are you doing here?"

"I thought I saw something. Found this."

He prepared for the full brunt of Goodwitch's ire. The Vindicare was trapped in the cave with her, and with every passing moment, it felt more and more likely she was about to explode.

"Interesting. Have you taken a look at the mural?"

To his relief, she didn't seem very mad. He hadn't, occupied with the servo-skull. With a glance, he took in the mural, noting the intricacies and etchings in the stone wall. The craftsmanship and detail was superb.

"It's nice?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. The scene etched was one of horror, Grimm destroying a village, as a mysterious black figure watched from afar. Remnant's brutalized High Gothic described the scene in visceral detail, of how the land itself came to fight against the expansion of Humans. At the end of the mural, lay the following description.

_In time, the great Kingdoms of Old were laid to waste, and only Remnants remained. May the Gods have mercy for our sins._

There was a pregnant pause as he absorbed the information and related it to his own knowledge. Glynda waited for him to react, but he didn't. He wasn't trained to.

"Can we leave now?"

"If you wish. This is not the most appealing environment."

Her eyes wandered over the servo-skull in his hand.

"It can talk."

He tried to switch it on, but the damned machine stayed silent.

"If you say so."

"I'm bringing it with me."

She only sighed.

︻┻┳══━一_

"Is he gone?"

Cardin looked around, as he put the jars down. Sky looked around nervously.

"Yeah man, we're in the clear."

"Thank the gods."

"Fucking shit, did you see what that psycho did to me?!"

Sky rubbed his shaved head in anger. The hair where it had been ripped out was slow to grow back out, the injury close to a scalping. Next to it was a fresh wound, a burned area where Grey had set fire to the dormitory room to wake the team up. With not enough time to raise his aura, Sky's new hair was set on fire.

"That's nothing." Cardin waggled his hand, feeling the joints crackle. It had been set not a day before. "He dislocated my damn thumb!"

Russel nodded, but didn't say a word. He couldn't, having bitten his tongue halfway off when Grey gave him an uppercut during a sparring session.

"I don't know how much more of this I can take. I thought Mrs. Goodwitch was bad, but he's, he's **worse. **Was that stunt he pulled on thursday legal?"

Grey set off a grenade in the dorm halls.

"Tell me about it. My ears are still ringing. Out fucking luck that fearless leader is also emotionless sociopath leader. And those runs he has us do? I don't think he realizes we need to rest."

"Man, shits insane," Sky looked over. "Did you get the sap?"

"Of course I did. I don't know what the freak will do us if we didn't. One for each of us, and one for him."

He held up a sticky jar. The lid moved, and even as Sky looked to warn him, it came loose, pouring purple syrup onto Cardin.

"Shit!" He tried to wipe it off, succeeding only in smearing it over himself. "Fucking hell, just my luck. Sky you there?"

The purple stained auburn haired boy walked around, trying to see out of eyes that were glued shut. He crashed into something big, and smelly. Trails of saliva fell onto him as he peeled his eyes open. Russel took that moment to regain his voice.

"URSA!"

︻┻┳══━一_

Goodwitch walked in the forest in silence. The ruins were a ways out, and Grey had somehow navigated the difficult terrain earlier without any difficulty. As she kept her aura up, she saw him leaping up and down hills like a mountain goat. It was experienced, the movements of a hunter. Shame that the skills were attached to someone so crazy.

The cave experience had been one of the most harrowing in her life. Not only was the cave far off from anywhere else, with no signal if anything went wrong, Grey had also decided not to use lights. Was he a faunus? He didn't have any of the faunus attributes, but he had to be, with the night vision.

Making her way through the darkness, she found him in front of the mural, shaking the skull up and down as if he was winding up a toy. She used her semblance to try to get him to turn, but found the telekinesis resisted. As she brought her semblance around him, it dissipated, deconcentrated. It was a strange sensation to the veteran huntress, unknown. Glynda hated the unknown.

Grabbing a fully shielded opponent was difficult because the aura fought back, made it slippery, for lack of a better word. Other times, they moved too fast for her to bear the full force of her telekinesis onto, breaking through the semblance. It was a decision on her part, when an opponent was weakened enough to use her semblance directly, and when to launch projectiles and weaken their aura first.

Grey was neither of those. Despite the fact that she could see him, his body just wasn't there. It was like trying to grab wind, or funnel smoke. Was that his semblance? An anti-semblance of some sort?

He felt it and swiveled his head to look directly at her. Who did that? Who turned their head instead of their entire body?

After the most stiff interaction, with the Grey's smile that showed far too many white teeth, the two made their way out. The skull was adhered to Grey's side by something that Glynda could not make out. Somehow, he must have decorated it, because there was a red monocle on it.

Suddenly, he stopped.

"Did you hear that? Sounded like Cardin."

"Hear what?"

She turned. But Grey was already gone.

Glynda hated the unknown.

︻┻┳══━一_

The black bear roared in the forest as Cardin flew into the air. He stumbled, and landed upright, breathing hard. Russel readied his blades, as Sky clicked the safety on his halberd off as Cardin managed to fumbled into a ready position. There was a crashing sound as the Ursa tore through the underbrush.

"Holy shit, it's coming! Remember the training!"

The Ursa charged into the clearing.

"What training? I only remember him beating us!"

His courage soared. They didn't need Grey and his abusive three collided with the Ursa, leaving Cardin taking the main burden. It was how they had trained. He would serve as pointsman, using his size and strength to draw enemy fire, while the other two attacked. Grey would fire from behind with his gun. There wasn't much evidence, but Grey claimed to be a good shot. Come to think about it, no one had seen him fire it. No one dared question him. Probably was terrible.

The beast smashed into the staff of Cardin's weapon. A few weeks ago, the momentum would've knocked him off his feet. Now, he knew to maintain his center of balance, and keep eyes on the enemy. Unexpected blows hurt the most. Grey's tutelage had taught him that. Cardin pushed back, feeling his weight shift.

With raw strength, the Ursa drove him back, snarling foul-smelling saliva into his face. Russel stabbed at its thick hide with little success, serving only to enrage the monster more. A single swipe, and the smaller knife wielder was made aerial, crashing into a tree nearby. His aura lit up the space around him, and he crumbled.

Sky smashed the halberd into its hind legs. The Ursa kicked out, and his light blue aura flared to take the impact. Roaring, it doubled down onto Cardin, driving the boy onto one knee. With abrupt violence, it shook its head, tearing the mace out of his grip. Defenceless, the Ursa ran forward chomped, pain flaring across Cardin's throat.

The Grimm lunged again. Another bite. Another strike, and the breath was knocked out of Cardin's lungs. He tried to crawl backwards, attacking the ursa's eyes ineffectually with his free hand. His courage ran down his leg.

Sky and Russel were returning, but not fast, or strong enough to tear the beast off. Cardin couldn't bring his scroll out, but he could feel his aura low, in the red. Another attack, and it would shatter.

The Ursa sensed his fear, and lunged, reinvigorated. Cardin saw a red maw, and rows upon rows of jagged teeth. He smelt the death on it's breath, saw with horror as it drew closer and closer. He closed his eyes, and awaited the end. He would face it with dignity, as a Winchester. Nobody could steal that from him.

Cardin felt warmth engulf his face, a heavy weight, and then nothing.

_I'm dead, aren't I?_

There was no pain. He opened his eyes, and saw nothing. Weird that the afterlife would be so boring. An explosion thundered. Was that his greeting to death? A cannon shot? It wasn't much, but at least there was one.

"Cardin!"

Was that Sky? Did he get killed too? A light shone onto his eyes, revealing a ground of red, and a sky of blue. Heaven sure looked a lot like Forever Falls. Sky's ghost dragged him to his feet, ignoring his protests.

"Are you alright? What happened?"

"Am I dead?"

"The fuck dude? No, you're alive, but I think you might've got a concussion back there. What's the last thing you remember?"

Cardin touched his forehead, and felt a vicious sting, his hands coming away with blood, both his and the Grimm's. The disappearing form of the headless Ursa was at his feet, instead of heavenly clouds. The thing was as in death as it was in life, another way of saying terrifying. Sky turned the beast's head on its side. Or what remained of it.

"Take a look at this."

There was a dinner plate sized hole in its bone face, its eyes turned to gelatin from the concussive waves that originated out of it. Cardin did the math in his head. It had never been his strong suit, but even he could tell the shot impacted before the sound did. Three things came to mind. The round was supersonic, at least. The round came from far away. And it was a difficult shot. Too low and he risked hitting Cardin. Too high and he missed the Ursa. Close to impossible.

They heard fast steps behind them, and faced the origin of the lethal wound. He was carrying a spindly gun, almost as tall as he was, despite the fact that the person was well above average height.

Team leader of GRWL.

︻┻┳══━一_

**Author's note: Yeah, and he sprinted the entire distance back. Go team. Excited for RWBY Season 7, but also excited for the advancement of the 40k timeline. Since the gathering storm, they've been teasing the return of another Primarch. All my friends say it's gonna be the Lion waking up, but I'm willing to bet it'll be the Khan speed demonizing out of the Dark Eldar. Maybe Sleeping Beauty wake up the lion.**

**Also for the record, Jaune's hair looks really weird lol. This might be the first time I've said this of an anime hairstyle, but it would look better in real life than in RWBY's pseudo CG style.**


	16. A Brief Respite

**Chapter 16**

"Are you alright?"

The Vindicare stopped running. Glynda was close behind him, despite the speed at which he had traversed the hilly terrain. The deputy headmistress was an experienced hunter before everything else.

"Holy shi-" Cardin seemed to remember he was talking to. "Sir, yes sir."

Taking aim as he moved, the Vindicare had snapped off a quick shot at the Ursa. It was just in time as well. Cardin was out of aura and Russel and Sky were too far away to help. The Ursa's next bite would have taken off Cardin's head.

"Great. Now answer this; How the fuck did the entire team manage to get beaten up by one Ursa?"

The Vindicare used his drill abbot voice. It wasn't perfect, but the three shrank away. If Goodwitch wasn't breathing down his neck, he would've been more physical. With her presence, GRWL avoided corporal punishment but not verbal beratement.

"Sir, we were taken by surprise and-"

They all talked at the same time, babbling inane excuses.

"One Ursa!"

"Sir-"

"I saw you take out more during Initiation!"

"T-," Cardin corrected himself, "Sir, those were juveniles."

"Oh, so you're telling me that if something older than a _juvenile _attacks you, you'll just lay down and die?"

"Sir-"

"I'm doubling training time. And you can say goodbye to your weapons, since you clearly can't use them."

Cardin's eyes bulged out of his head. He was regaining his streak of independence. Many did after their first encounter with death. It was a common problem with rookie guard that had survived their first

"Do you have any comments?"

Logic overruled emotion. Maybe it was the way the Vindicare lifted the barrel of the Exitus, just a fraction. He wouldn't have fired. Only four more Turbo Penetrator Rounds remaining. It would be wasteful to use one as punishment when he had just used one to save Cardin. It all depended on if Ruddy could make more.

"Sir, no, sir."

"Good." The Vindicare looked at the sticky purple patch on Cardin's armour. "And clean yourself off. You look disgusting."

"Sir…"

︻┻┳══━一_

"Why are we meeting this guy again?"

Cinder looked at him, and the grey haired teen fidgeted. Mercury was a sociopath, but not an idiot. He knew his place. Her new contact was less controlled. Her threat to reveal his position was not without risk. He could do the same to her.

But there was no point. Their interests aligned for the moment.

"Our application to Beacon has been accepted. This contact is already inside, and can assist us along the way. This meeting will ensure his cooperation."

"What's so special about him?" Mercury paused as he considered his life. "If you don't mind me asking?"

"He's one of my criminal contacts. You will like him. He's like you."

"Is he dangerous?"

"Yes."

He was trained in some capacity. Either did not feel or did not show fear. There was something else about him…

Her hands crackled into bright fire. Mercury and Emerald both flinched, and took a step back. The Maiden powers were incomplete, but powerful enough to burn through aura.

From her training under Salem, Cinder could manifest the fires whenever she wanted, and with enough concentration, and physical contact, she could burn through practically anything.

It had stopped working when they shook hands for the first time.

She always sized on the fiery sensation that swelled inside her when she sized up her opposition. Not the full extent of her power, but enough to prove a point.

There was a preternatural chill when Cinder walked into the safe room. Originally, Cinder had believed it to be an excessive air conditioner, until the feeling worsened as she got closer, biting into her skin and flesh until she had goosebumps. There she ascertained the source.

It originated from Roman's friend. He was a killer of some sort. There was an air around him, something that felt of death. Like an Atlas android, he invoked the uncanny valley whenever he moved.

His scars attested to an encounter with someone at some point. They were far too clean to be Grimm, and someone of his skill set would not be beaten by one.

She sought to master him with a show of strength. The fire disappeared when they touched. It was an electric. Where fire had been, a great emptiness replaced, and a sharp pain in her body. It felt like a semblance of some sort, one that could counteract her own powers.

Trying harder, the pain worsened. It wasn't that the Maidens powers were gone. She could feel it flutter around inside her. But it was agony that answered when she called on them. She barely kept from crying out, instead gritting her teeth.

He won the encounter, and they withdrew hands.

Someone who could counteract the Maidens was someone to watch indeed. It was a shame about the personality.

"Emerald."

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Try to ingratiate yourself onto him. Find his strengths, his weaknesses, and what exactly his semblance is."

Emerald nodded.

Tall, but not giant. Muscular, but not in an obscene way. More athletic than powerful. The physique of a hunter, but the weapon of an Assassin. She wondered how much of his utter inoffensiveness as by chance, and how much was by design.

Grey Titus.

A boring name for an interesting individual.

He would be dealt with if the need arose. Until then, they had an alliance. He could prove his worth, and she could scope out his full potential at the next raid.

︻┻┳══━一_

"Ozpin, the child's pure evil."

"He is simply misunderstood."

"I fail to misunderstand how the other members of GRWL are terrified of him!"

"Titus is one of those who believes a leader should inspire fear. He will learn in time that leadership encompasses many more traits than power alone."

"He enjoyed the suffering on the mural!"

"Yes, it did appear that way. But we found out something far more important. Titus did not know about the old mythology prior."

Grey had expressed surprise at encountering the ruins and while looking over the mural.

"He plays with skulls."

"I decline to comment about that."

"Grey could have faked his reaction. And Salem can adapt. It is possible she chose not to teach her new pawn the exact nature of what he is doing."

"True. I know firsthand of Salem's cunning."

Ozpin's eyes glassed over thinking of past deeds and lives, before refocusing.

"Qrow."

"What about that dusty old man?"

"Play nice Glynda. Qrow's in the family." Ozpin took out his scroll, and dragged to Qrow's name. "He can judge our friend and break this little deadlock of ours."

"Isn't he on a case?"

"He is. A low stakes criminal trail here in Vale City. I'm sure he wouldn't mind. When is the next field opportunity for first-years?"

"There's one second semester, but it's voluntary. I don't think Grey will attend and I can't subtly bring the conversation to hand."

"Can you force him to? A detention or mandatory punishment of some sort. I'm sure you can find some fault in his actions somewhere."

"That I can do. He may lose a few leisure hours, but what's that to the safety of Vale? It's not like he's doing anything important."

Probably playing with the skull.

︻┻┳══━一_

"**HELLO RECOGNIZED BIOSIGNATURE!"**

The Vindicare started, and looked at the skull by his bed. The red optic was powered again, if the deafening voice of the servo-skull was anything to go by. His teammates were gone on a laundry errand, and the walls would muffle any sounds.

"Why did you stop working earlier?"

"**THIS MODEL CAN ONLY FUNCTION IN THE PRESENCE OF RECOGNIZED BIOSIGNATURES."**

Counterintuitive for reconnaissance purposes. A personal model. Lucky that the Vindicare had figured it out before using it for scouting.

"Run diagnostics for this model."

"**THIS IS THE VANQUISHER MODEL SEVENTEEN, PRODUCTION NUMBER EIGHTY-FIVE THREE ASTRA. PLEASE STANDBY."**

The old servo skull floated a milimetre from the table stand, sparked once, and then rolled off. A variety of sounds of differing timbre and pitch were made from the ground, interrupted by crackling static. The Imperial Assassin patiently waited for the disembodied head to resume speaking.

"**DIAGNOSTICS COMPLETE. ANTI-GRAV PADS NONFUNCTIONAL. AUDIOTORIAL SUITE DAMAGED. WIRELESS TRANSMISSION ONLINE. DATA-BANKS ONLINE. POWER PACK DISCONNECTED. THIS MODEL IS AT 33% FUNCTIONALITY. BLESS THE OMNISSIAH." **

Better than expected for something close to ten thousand years old. It was a shame about the grav-pads. He would need to outfit the skull with vertirotors or something of the sort as soon as he could, if he wanted flight capabilities.

"List all wireless connections available."

"**UNIDENTIFIED DEVICE TITLED "JACQUES SCHNEE'S PHONE." DO YOU WISH TO CONNECT THIS DEVICE NOW?"**

"Yes."

"**LINK ESTABLISHED. BLESS THE OMNISSIAH."**

"Can the volume be lowered?

"**NEGATIVE, AUDITORY FUNCTION HAS BEEN COMPROMISED ON BROADCAST UNIT." **

This was going to be a problem as long as the Vindicare could not find someone willing to perform mechanical repairs on a human skull. For the foreseeable future, as far as he knew.

"List stored files."

"**THERE ARE FIVE RECORDED MESSAGES ON THIS UNIT. DO YOU WISH TO RESUME WHERE YOU LAST LEFT OFF?"**

"Please."

A pause.

"This is Inquisitor Farrow. Personal Log Three. I have made contact with the natives of this land. They are… Interesting. Every individual has the potential to develop into a psyker with a simple personalized hymn. What's more, I have been unable to discern any nearby warp storms around this planet."

A fact that the Vindicare himself was able to deduce. A Daemonic incursion was hardly a silent affair.

"It's like the planet itself exists away from the influence of the Immaterium, yet is still able to draw from its power! Most inhabitants seem to be able to have gamma level psyker abilities, with an emphasis on kine shielding, biomancy, and some forms of pyromancy, as well as the more common wych sight. They call them "Auras" and "Semblances." The abhorrible mutants can utilize these otherworldly powers, but fortunately, they are little more than slaves. I have requested that one of them be provided to me for study. Fascinating creatures. A stable breeding abhuman race."

Inquisitor Farrow had found out about the Faunus. They were once oppressed and enslaved on Remnant, and only in relatively recent times been freed.

"The heathens here do not worship the God-Emperor, instead believing in a fantasy about two brother Gods. Grotesque, and deserving of Exterminatus, but fascinating nonetheless. My arrival here has caused a stir among the population. The king of Vale wishes to greet me personally within the week. Will update as situation progresses. Farrow out."

Brother gods? Ridiculous. Better atheist and agnostic as Remnant was now, than believing in false prophets. The only one deserving of worship was the God-Emperor, hallowed by his name, though the Oficio Assasinorum prohibited direct sacrifice for him. Service was prayer enough.

"**INCOMING TRANSMISSION FROM: RUDDY BURGUNDY. DO YOU WISH TO HAVE THE MESSAGE BROADCAST?"**

"Negative."

The Vindicare's scroll chimed at the same time. Between the two, the Vindicare preferred Remnant's technology over the skull, though it was fortunate the skull was already attuned to the CCT. He opened up the message.

_Cooked up a few models. Come test them out soon as you can- Ruddy._

His morale rose, and he quashed it. It could be many more trials before a usable bullet was made. He had another request to be made for the weapon artisan that could be asked the next time he was there. The Vindicare's scroll chimed again.

"**INCOMING TRANSMISSION FROM [REDACTED]: DO YOU WISH TO HAVE THE MESSAGE BROADCAST?"**

"Negative. Shut down future notifications.

_Hitting the Schnee docks on Saturday. Bring gear- RT_

_Acknowledged. Will meet you there._

About time something happened with the White Fang. He would rent out an anti-material rifle in the meantime. Truth be told, he wanted to use it. It had been a while since he had used the full range of his marksmanship abilities.

Turning to play the next log, the Vindicare was interrupted by a knock on the door. Cardin, Russel, and Sky shuffled in afterwards, and snapped to parade rest. They were out of their armour, and in the Beacon uniform. It wasn't much of a military one, but made them out to be a much more unified force.

"Sir, reporting as ordered for team practice!" And then, in a much quieter voice, "Where are we headed today, sir?"

Psychologically beneficial for what was about to occur. Teamwork was fostered better among those with all differentiating variables stripped away. Nothing else could be blamed save their own abilities.

"Sir?"

Abilities that were about to be called on many times.

︻┻┳══━一_

"You call yourself hunters?" the Vindicare yelled, his voice echoing across the arena. "I've seen more worthy lifeforms in the latrines. Now, continue like you mean it!"

They peeled themselves off the floor. It had been three hours since he had begun the new training regimen. A circuit designed to whittle the mind as well as the body, it was the first thing many guardsman experienced in bootcamp, being defeated by the instructor in their own exercises to properly show the superiority of the drill sergeant. Of course, he had already done it once, but tradition was tradition.

Despite the hours, he was far from satisfied. GRWL had an issue with stamina, with both Cardin and Sky working out only the vanity muscles. Good for explosive power. Neither had the steady output necessary for extended periods of time.

Russel had surprised him by being an excellent distance runner, in addition to a sprinter.

He ran to a pull up bar, and finished his fifty repetitions. All around them, the Vindicare had set up, or made them set up, a variety of exercises, weights, equipment. Each corresponded to a motion a hunter would have to use. Forearm strength for grip. Upper body for climbing. And many more.

At the end of each round was a simple hand to hand spar. First to hit the ground lost. Two rounds lost, and another round would be added. It kept them operating at maximum effort.

"Stay down as you run!" He said, as he walked alongside Cardin. As the auburn teen straightened out, he hit them behind the head, driving them back down. "An enemy sniper has taken overwatch control of this area. Stay crouched if you want to live."

It must've seemed like madness to them. It was madness to the Vindicare, but necessary madness.

In the makeshift dirt ring, Cardin eyed him wearily, and brought his hands up in defense of his head. It was a futile gesture, as the Vindicare tackled his legs, and drove him into the dirt backwards.

Russel defeated Sky, in much the same manner. He caught on to the different type of sparring faster.

"Team, halt!"

They froze, just as they were preparing for another repetition.

"This activity is finished. Clear the arena, and report back when you are done."

It was done. They returned into a line.

The Vindicare brought out a number of school supplied bolt rifles, and his own Exitus rifle. The round chambered was tiny, a measly round barely capable of hurting an unarmed civilian. It was perfect to simulate the weapon they were going to receive in one weeks time. Their faces scrunched up, but they did not respond in his presence.

"From today forward, this weapon is yours. It will stay in your possession at all times. It will stay in your sight when you use the restrooms, in the mess hall, in the dorms. If you shower, and I suggest you do, you may leave it outside, but in plain view. This is as far as it will ever be away from your hands. Ammunition can stay in the armoury until the rifle is in use. Failure to comply will result in consequences. Do I make myself clear?"

"Sir, yes sir!"

"You will learn to use this weapon, and how to disassemble and reassemble it. By the time the Vytal Festival is here, you will learn to shoot this weapon and it will save your life. Now, repeat after me."

"This is my rifle."

He held his gun out. The others mimicked him, and echoes the Vindicare doctrine.

"There are many like it, but this one is mine."

The words flowed into the Vindicare's mouth. It was a psycho conditioned creed, one he must have heard a million times before. Before mastering anything else, a Vindicare took this message to his heart. It was dated to the Age of Terra, to a group of ancient warriors. Further proof to Humanity's superiority, in creating something that remained true so many blood filled years after.

"My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life."

They repeated the blood oath. Master the Exitus, and master the physical form. The Vindicare temple used a slightly adjusted version, but the overall theme still rang true.

"My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. And I will."

The ritual was finished. They looked at him expectedly.

"Take this creed to heart. Now, set down your weapons."

"To disassemble a bolt action rifle, first ensure your weapon is unloaded…"

︻┻┳══━一_

"Your team is pretty dead."

Team GRWL picked at their food, and tried to keep their heads from joining with the cafeteria tables. The provided meal today was dry poultry, a fact that didn't help. The simple act of chewing was proving to be the team's undoing. A meal after practice was a double edged sword.

"..."

He was feeling the strain himself. He wasn't sure how many times, he could've explained how to press the bolt release, and release the vice for the bolt. Separating the stryker pin from the body wasn't difficult, but it was apparently impossible for Russel. His new found respect for the knife-wielder evaporated.

"Remnant to Grey?"

"Hm?"

Yang shook a hand in front of his eyes. He blinked, and looked around. Ruby and Weiss were arguing over something and Blake was reading a book. Team JNPR sat beside him, Jaune and Pyrrha forming one side, and Nora and Lie, another.

"I said, you're pushing them too hard for the Vytal Festival. Cardin hasn't said a word, and he used to be so **confident**."

She put an extra emphasis on the word, indicating that it went far beyond just that. Cardin had been a bully, to Jaune and Faunus. The Vindicare had chosen for GRWL to sit next to the other teams for possible information about upcoming events, and to smooth out relationships moving onwards. He informed his team to say much the same if asked.

"Cardin say something so they don't think I beat you."

"But you do bea-"

The Vindicare ground a heel into Cardin's foot, while jabbing his elbow into a rib. To his credit, Cardin didn't scream out, instead draining of blood.

"I apologize for my previous actions. Grey has taught me the error of my ways, and I hope that we can be friends moving onwards."

The Vindicare cringed as Cardin used his exact words. The other eight looked at Cardin like he was being controlled. Which he was.

"Ri-i-ight. But seriously, you need to chill." Yang was worried about his own team. Go figure.

"I know my limits."

"Yeah? I'm sure you do. I don't think that you know _their_ limits."

Russel fell into a bowl of soup, splashing it all around. A rolling snore bubbled out. Jaune looked at him, and the Vindicare lifted Russel's head from the liquid to make sure he didn't drown.

"Sheesh, I'm glad I didn't take up your offer."

"Why?" The Vindicare asked. Sky leaned backwards, lost his balance, and was asleep before he hit the ground.

"Well. Um. How do I say this? You're..."

Pyrrha saved the blonde.

"I have offered to train with Jaune."

"Shame. I could have used a fifth. Would you mind to join us every so often? It doesn't have to be every time. Just for some exercises that are better done in a large group."

Pyrrha nodded.

"That sounds lovely. What do you think Jaune?"

"Of course. What are friends for? Heh." His voice tapered. "Yeah, more training!"

"Hey, is there a team leader agreement going on? Can I join?" Ruby burst into the conversation with a cloud of flower petals.

Jaune responded.

"Oh, nothing, we just decided to do some workouts together."

"Sounds fun! Can we join?"

Weiss interceded.

"I don't think they need more-"

"Yeah, I want in." Yang pumped a bicep. "We still need to have our rematch, Grey." She smiled. "I'm better prepared now."

The Vindicare paled. His previous victory was due to a swift and violent rush. He doubted Yang would fall for that again.

"Of course. How could I forget? How does next class on Monday sound?"

"I'll hold you to that."

He tried to smile.

"So you guys going anywhere for semester break?" Jaune asked.

"No."

"Mistral's quite busy at this time of the year, so I was going to stay here.."

"It's just a long weekend right? There's no point in going anywhere."

"Yang and I thought we were going to go back to Patch, but dad's on a hunter mission. So no."

"Nora and I don't have anywhere to go."

Russel and Sky snored. Cardin blinked one eye at a time.

"How bout you Grey?"

He didn't want to give a definitive answer to his whereabouts. The mystery of the Maiden's was still unknown. The Vindicare would stay in Beacon until one of two things happened. He was revealed, or Salem's location became known. If either happened, breaking his word would be the least of his concerns.

"I don't think so."

"Oh wow, we're all staying. We should come up with something to do."

"We could prepare for the Vytal Festival." Weiss gave an approving look to Grey. Everyone else shuddered.

"But we can do that when school starts again. Let's do something fun! Something with a Yang!"

Ruby groaned.

"Me and Renny-bear always used to watch movies? Right Ren?" Nora pinched Ren's cheeks.

"Movie night? I'm down. You guys?"

They gave assent.

Holopicts? Sounded boring as hell. Then again, he needed some boring. The past month had dealings with Adeptus Mechanicus, abhuman terrorists, Atlesian generals, immortal wizards, deadly criminals, Inquisitors, psykers and more. Maybe boring was what he needed. The Officio Assassinorum wound up their agents tighter than the sinew coils in a Primaris. It worked when there was continuous indoctrination and hibernation. Less when said agent needed to act like a human being.

"Sure."

"Great, it's settled. Operation RWBY, JNPR, and GRWL Movie Night is a go!"

The three teams broke into raucous conversation, and their voices tumbled and mixed into one another. Pyrrha's melodic almost song. Ruby's and Jaune's high pitched timbres. Nora's loud cackling interposed with Ren's calming tone.

And for once, the Vindicare didn't mentally record the exact contents of the conversations. He didn't need to. They were friends, and friends didn't note down the exact date something was happening to hold it against them. They didn't realize that they were making memories. It just happened.

︻┻┳══━一_

**Author's Note: Woohoo. A little bit of a shorter chapter here. Here we have some friendly stuff, nothing too serious. Not completely done with Volume One, so you know the Blake angst that's coming up. I'm going to change some things with the dock scene, so the story flows better. But there is something on the horizon. **

**I am going to warn you, there's going to be some dark stuff coming up, and the storyline is going to diverge from RWBY canon. Just so you're warned. Also you guys got a name for servo skull head guy? I feel weird syntax and flow wise calling it a skull every time since it isn't just a skull, but I'm afraid if I call it a drone, people are going to forget it's a servo skull. As always if there are any grammar or other issues, just leave a review, and I'll fix it as soon as possible.**


	17. Nuts and Bolters

**Chapter 17**

_The voidship the Officio Assassinorum dumped him on was the Halles Vitali, and appeared ordinary. It was a Carrack class bulk-transport, with the standard Gothic cathedrals and buttresses outside. A few macro cannons were the only defense._

_The ship's interior was where it began to differ. Sterile, and well lit, it appeared more advanced than anything else the boy had ever seen before. Grav-simulator rooms were clustered around numerous firing ranges, and holoriums that were better equipped than those found in the Schola in which he had come from. There were armouries as well, and each recruit could take a weapon whenever he wanted. Whether the Officio trusted their abilities or lack thereof was unknown. He took a laspistol, the smallest one he could find, that could be concealed carry in his pants belt. Unfortunately, as he soon found out, the generosity in equipment did not extend to living quarters._

_His room, if it could be called that, was cramped, a two meter by two meter cell with a chem toilet, and a sanit-counter. There was a single blue-tinged light-diode panel in the ceiling. Even with no possessions, the room was cramped, and the boy did not spend much time there, instead exploring the ship to the annoyance of the voidsmen. He encountered a few of the other recruits on his self-guided errand. They had arrived some weeks or months before him and had already familiarized themselves with the layout._

_Drawn from a hundred other worlds, they were a varied bunch. They were all well-muscled, with the trained eyes of a Schola graduate, or the haunted stare of those who had seen true combat. Most were his age, but there were a few that were adults, some sporting scars and facial hair. The boy didn't know at the time, but each were the elite of either their classes or their squad, the top one percent in their specialization, with exemplary marks in either infiltration, marksmanship, melee combat, or information processing. _

_Some even doubled up, being the top of their classes in multiple categories. I'm another life, they would've been the ones to pass the trials to become a space marine._

_Nobody talked to one another. Whether by the design of the selection process, or by choice of the recruits, even at this early stage, the first vestiges of the Officio Assassinorum agent began to show, an antisocial air that refused the bindings of friendship and brotherhood. There were different types of antisocial among the prospective assassins, and the boy could differentiate three categories that most recruits fell into. Some were sociopathic, taking a perverse pleasure in the suffering of others, whereas others were merely psychopathic, indifferent to it. The final was his own, those that had normal human emotions, but never acted or reacted onto them._

_With his arrival, the voidship closed its bays, and took off from the planet, not to be seen until the Officio Assassinorum recruited again. Entering the warp, the Vitali began its odyssey towards Terra, its cargo a thousand students. He spent his time in his room, mentally gathering himself for whatever was ahead._

"_All recruits please report to Flight Deck Thirteen."_

_The intercom system was installed directly into his cell, and was at a pleasant volume, loud enough to wake one asleep, but not loud enough to startle._

_Arriving at the deck, the other students stood at attention, and he joined their ranks. A second later, a figure wearing a gun-metal mask entered the room on the elevated platform. A massive rifle, one the boy thought must've been ripped directly off an emplacement on the voidship was on his back. One of the man's arms was an bionica, the intricate mechanisms uncovered and moving. He wore a black form fitting suit with a shimmering brown cloak behind it, complete with a model of pistol the boy had never seen before on his belt. Twenty other unmasked men followed, in nondescript grey uniforms, their expressions dark and wreathed in shadows. The boy did not fail to see the bolt pistols by their side. _

_A second later, the first man spoke._

"_Initiates, you have been chosen for this path by your abilities. Ones that have proven useful in the history of the Imperium's war and would otherwise rot in obscurity. My task, and the tasks of the instructor beside me, are to develop those abilities to their full potential, and to introduce a thousand more."_

_A pause._

"_Make no mistake. You are all individuals from a Schola or battlefield background, and have shown extraordinary aptitude. Despite what you may have experienced before, this will be a trying experience. Live ammunition is used in all drills. Each combat exercise must be conducted with lethal intent, or you will fail. For those who fail in a given task, medical care will not be provided. Initiates are expected to treat their own wounds. I will be forthright. Previous percentage pass-rates are in the decimals. "_

_A whisper of fear, anger passed through the recruits. It was silenced._

"_For those who survive, the ordeal is not over. On Terra, you will be separated into temples and your training will continue for another decade, and only then will you be worthy to join the ranks of the Assassinorum."_

_There was a silence among the cadets, as they gathered the mental resolvedness to continue._

"_Your first task is to form groups of five. This will be your team for the remainder of your journey, and will not be replenished as members die. Choose well. Dismissed."_

_And his ten years started on that day._

︻┻┳══━一_

The ceramic plate shattered, raining red dust all over the firing range. It was a level four plate, capable of stopping the fifty, among the lesser rounds. More than capable of turning a soldier's head into red mist. The Vindicare was less than satisfied. Exitus was capable of far more than such a pitiful amount of armour.

"Which one was that?"

The Vindicare picked up the casing from the floor.

"Thirteen, Variant B."

Ruddy scrawled down some notes in a paper journal.

"Looks like we got the casing and bullet down. Did you catch when the secondary penetrators went off?"

"Half a millisecond after exiting the barrel."

"A little too late, but this is really short range, so there is a larger margin for error." Ruddy looked at them. "You got crazy reactions, anyone ever tell you that?"

Or so the Lord Assassin had beaten into him. And stabbed. And shot. Multiple times, with a variety of rounds. Who knew that an eight twenty five milimetre round could crack a rib through synskin? Common sense, but also the Vindicare.

"A few times."

"Least we know what job you can get if this whole hunter thing doesn't pan out. Human stopwatch."

Ruddy's joke flew over his head, or it would have if he didn't have lightning reflexes. He stared blankly at the retired hunter/artisan. Ruddy coughed.

"Nevermind." Ruddy looked at his notes. "Alright, so the reinforced casing works but it's a bit slow. How'd that feel for you?

"Accuracy felt right, but this is a very short distance, so the verdict is unclear. Power is still on the lower side."

Ruddy wrote down his comments. The Vindicare got up from his firing position.

"Loads better than nothing. Like they say, beggars can't be choosers. I'll whip up another batch with the ones that worked, change a few things. You need anything else?"

"I want three pulse laser rifles."

Emperor, it felt weird calling lasguns that. Ruddy looked at him and shook his head.

"What's with you and these weird requests? First you wanted a bullet for that _thing_," he pointed at the Exitus, "Now you're asking for three laser pulse rifles. You equipping an army?"

"Something like that."

"Right. You have groundwork down or-"

"Fifty pulses, spaced at ten nanoseconds, with four hundred joules per pulse. Make the power pack as big as you can in a magazine style."

"Of course you've thought of it already. Energy weapons. Never did like them. They deplete aura like nothing else, but there's no knockback. Course, once aura breaks, that flashpoint injuries twice as lethal as a bullet, but no hunters gonna stand and take it. Sure you don't want three normal slug-throwers?"

The Vindicare nodded.

Ruddy eyed him down. "This will be paid. Your Exit-us, ithat how you say it, is a side thing because of the mechanical marvel that it is, but this is a pretty standard catalog order and modification."

"How much?"

"With the Beacon discount, total comes down to nine hundred lien."

"Here." He gave the loose-leaf amount.

Ruddy scanned them with a device of some sort, and then put the money into the register.

"I can get those done for you by the end of the week. That it this time? No other requests? Half-expecting you to ask for a chainsaw sword, or ballistic fists, or something stupid."

What was wrong with chainswords and power fists? They were logical weapons, ubiquitous to practically every ground force of the Imperium. Even the foul and dimwitted Xenos had their ineffective replicas.

"That's it."

"Pleasure doing business with you. Take care now, you hear? Don't want my favorite customer to go missing."

The Vindicare smiled.

︻┻┳══━一_

"Here's the ticket."

The shopkeep took the paper, and held it close to his chest, as if it was his life. In a way it was. The ticket was a one way to Vacuo, paid for in cash, and under a false name. The Vindicare used one of the fake identities Junior had. It had been childsplay to enter a photo of Tukson.

"Remember: Your name is Cobalt Angelo."

Tukson gave him a side eye, and snorted.

"Kid, I was a terrorist. Insane and obsessed are the words, not retarded."

"Sorry."

"S'alright, just messing with you. I can't thank you enough for this."

"The keys to the store would work."

"Yeah, here they are." Tukson tossed him a set of keys. "Passcode for the safe in the wall is Three-One-Three-Three-Seven. You need to write it down?"

"I'm good."

"Don't call me if you forget. And no harsh feelings, but I liquidated pretty much my entire inventory. Need funds some way."

The bookstore was absent of most books, save the ones on esoteric topics, the standard pulp weight loss programs, and a few very niche pornos. He would've preferred the history books had remained behind, but there was nothing in them the Vindicare absolutely needed. If anything, he was relieved Tukson had half a brain. It made it less likely that the ex-terrorist would be traced back to him.

"None. I would have done the same."

"How do my masks fit you?"

The White Fang masks were too large, but like Ruddy said, beggars can't be choosers.

"I'll make them work."

"You get the base locations?"

"Yes."

"Then we done?"

"Yes."

The Vindicare stuck his gloved hand out. Tukson took it, and shook exactly twice.

"Be careful here. Fang's moving out for something."

"So I've heard." More than heard. He would participate in the Schnee dock raid with Torchwick. "Try not to join the Fang cell in Vacuo when you're there."

"I'll do my best."

They released hands. Tukson gave the store another glance, opened his mouth to say something, before closing it again, and smiling. He exited through the back door, where he would be less likely to be spotted. All being well, he would never be seen again in Vale. Perhaps he would send a postcard.

The Vindicare dimmed the windows, and flipped the sign on the door. He looked around the store, and began the age old process of sweeping the grounds. Cinder had managed to bug Junior's bar at some point, and despite no indication that Tukson had done business with the wych at some point, it paid to be careful. Due to the size and nature of a bookstore, the Vindicare spent three hours in this task, and it was well into dark when he finished.

Clean.

Well.

Dust and hair was gathered all over his face, and he brushed spiders and cobwebs out of his hair. The page of a magazine was stuck to his shoe, as well as a much more dubious coloured paper.

Clean of recording devices.

That made the former bookstore a true safehouse. Given he took the necessary precautions, he could stockpile weapons and ammunition, and retreat here if he ever took arms against Cinder. He went through a small checklist. Medical supplies, potable water, rations, power packs for the hotshot pistol.

While the Vindicare could use some spare lien, he needed to get word out that the bookstore was closed so that it could be forgotten about as soon as possible. It was fortunate that rockcrete and mortar stores were already out of style, electronic books being able to be downloaded directly to scrolls.

The bell tinkled behind him, and he turned to face an undressed blonde abhuman with a tail. A customer of some sort. Based on his style of dress, probably for the porno-slates. The abhuman shifted on his feet, and wouldn't look him in the eyes.

"Do you have any copies of Breeding Stock by LionWrites?"

Erotica. His earlier suspicions were confirmed.

"Sorry, we're closed."

The tailed abhuman gave an awkward smile, grimaced, flapped his arms uselessly, and then walked back out. The Vindicare looked out the door window as he left. The Macaca faunus walked across the street, muttering obscenities.

"Fucking shit, that was awkward. Well fuck, lemme just fucking go up to the goddamn owner and ask for fucking..."

Quite the stream of curses. The Vindicare added sound proofing to one of the things the store needed. Glass was not a good insulator. The doorbell tinkled behind him again.

"You're not Tukson."

Black and white outfit. Reminiscent of an ancient's servant's garb, but far more immodest. Many outfits the hunters and huntresses wore were more revealing than the Vindicare was comfortable with. The fact that he wore skin tight synskin was not lost on him.

"Blake."

The monkey faunus came up behind her.

"Grey."

"Oh, hey you guys know each other?"

They both ignored him.

"Ruby was looking for you."

She sent the Vindicare a text telling her how her teammate had disappeared. Grey said he would keep an eye out. The Vindicare had more pressing concerns.

"What did she say?"

"That you had an argument with Weiss. She's worried."

Blake nodded, and looked around the store.

"Where's Tukson?"

"Not around. He asked me to watch the store while he was gone."

The lie flew off his tongue. Blake was an unknown by the nature of her concealed Faunus heritage. The Vindicare had figured it out relatively early, observing her behaviorism and comparing them to Velvet's.

He didn't trust her. Not only because she was an abhuman and tainted in mind and body. Someone who would and could lie about such a base fact could lie about something else.

Suspicion was etched on her face, and the Vindicare did not fail to notice the way her hands got closer to her weapon. According to the catalogs, Gambol Shroud was classified as a "Variant Ballistic Chain Scythe" with the highest number of transformation states of all the weapons he had encountered. Like Ruby, Blake used the momentum of recoil to power her strikes during spars. When facing versatile and mechano-shifting weapons, it was best to attack the source.

In this case, it was Blake.

"i don't believe you. That book was the safe-word we had. What did you do to him?"

"What did you want with him?"

Answering a question with a question. What would his Lord Assassin say to him now?

"It's not your business."

No one responded like that unless they had something to hide. He was curious now. Why the sudden defensiveness? Faunus on Remnant were mistreated, but Vale was one of the better ones, and it was never bad enough to have to hide.

"I think it is. After all, he is White Fang."

The sudden change in the atmosphere was felt by all. He saw Blake draw the sword-pistol-scythe, and begin to point it at him. He brushed it aside with the knife, not meaning to cause any real damage.

"Woah, holy shit, guys calm down!"

The blonde teen tried to intervene. The Vindicare pushed the offensive.

"You're Fang, aren't you? A terrorist."

"No!" Her eyes filled with terror. "Not anymore, not for a long time."

Another defector. The White Fang in Vale clearly had some HR issues they needed to work through.

"Once a terrorist, always a terrorist."

Replace "terrorist" with "heretic" and you had the Imperium's official stance on everything Chaos tainted!

"No!" Blake seemed on the verge of tears. "We were different back then. I didn't expect it to warp into this twisted parody of the group I joined!"

"Do the others know?"

"I-It was why I ran away from my team. I don't think I can ever go back…"

"Groxshit."

"What?"

"I said, **BULLSHIT!**" The ex-terrorist faunus jumped at the sudden volume. Fortunately for everyone involved, Blake actually practiced trigger-discipline, and did not discharge her weapon in the closed confines of the bookstore. The Vindicare did not like tinnitus, but it always seemed to find a way to him.

"Once a terrorist, always a terrorist. Does that mean, you have to keep being a terrorist?"

"I'm not a terro-. No."

"Then, why does it matter that you were once White Fang?"

"You don't understand-"

"I don't understand what? Being something I am not? I can assure you," His voice lowered to little more than a growl, "I understand that better than anyone."

The Vindicare moved to behind the counter of the bookstore. It gave him time to think of his next course of action. Blake did not stop him.

"I was born on the streets of Atlas. My family was penniless. As such, like you, I was indoctrinated into an organization like yours."

The truth was almost always the simplest choice of action. It was never the best one. For that, the Vindicare wrapped the truth in layers upon layers of fabrications. The tales were based on reality, and always seemed plausible. It ensured that however much an investigator dug after he left, they would only find varying levels of lies. Never enough to expose the Assassinorum.

"When I was twelve, I killed my first person."

The blonde and black haired faunus both gasped. It was actually much earlier.

"Afterwards, I knew I couldn't do it, and I fled to Vale to become a hunter. Does that make me a bad person? Maybe. Tukson was Fang. But he chose to leave. I chose to become a hunter. To protect Humanity."

While vile mutants still draw breath, there can be no peace. While obscene heretics' hearts still beat, there can be no respite. While faithless traitors still live, there can be no forgiveness. For in the forty-first millenium, there is only the fires of war.

"The point I am making is this. Teams have arguments all the time. The past can draw these out. It was Weiss, wasn't it, that figured it out? Her family was always anti-Faunus."

A nod. He knew that Blake was making a mistake. Ruby and Yang thought the world of her team. Weiss, as cold as she was, was much the same, even though she may deny it. Blake could run away, make another life elsewhere. But the truth always surfaced, and she could spend the rest of her life running, before the past found her again. For members of the Imperium, that was when the Vindicare would step in, or any Assassin from any temple. On Remnant, the issue did not need a sniper's bullet.

"What's important is moving forwards. This problem can be addressed. If you leave now, you'll be running away because you are scared. You won't be known as a terrorist anymore, yes. But you know what that makes you?"

A shake of the head.

"A coward who runs away. Are you a coward, Blake?"

She opened her mouth to say no, but closed it before any noise came out. The Vindicare saw a flash of red, yellow, and white behind the store door. There was even some orange and green.

"Good."

The door flew open.

"Then face your fears."

︻┻┳══━一_

"Blake, you massive idiot! Do you know how long we were looking for you?"

Weiss, semper iratus.

"We were so worried!" Ruby said.

"I'm sorry. Weiss," She turned to face the heiress, "I want you to know…"

Weiss cut in.

"Eight hours. We've been looking for you for eight hours. And you know what I've decided in those eight hours?"

A pause.

"I don't care."

"You don't care?"

"You said you're not one of them anymore, right?"

"No, I-I haven't been since I was young-"

"Ah-ah, ah," Weiss made a few silencing noises. "I don't want to hear it. All I want to know is that the next time something this big comes up you'll come to your teammates. And not some..."

She looked at the Vindicare. The monkey-faunus shrunk behind him.

"Other people."

A single tear fell out of Blake's eye, and she wiped it off.

"Of course."

There was a somber tone in the room as the team was reunited. It was interrupted by an ear piercing scream, and Ruby waving her arms like a maniac.

"Yeah, Team RWBY is back together!"

"How did you guys find me?"

"Oh, Grey sent us a message!"

The Vindicare tried to wave her off, but failed to catch her eye.

_Found lost cat. Tukson's bookstore._

"When did you…? So that story you told me…"

"When I moved behind the counter. All false. I was trying to keep you here until they arrived."

Blake gave him a look that could wither ceramite. He tried to smile it off.

"I did come from Atlas."

The new orange and green girl chirped.

"Are you? What a coincidence! I too am from Atlas."

The new girl was wearing a light grey blouse, overalls with neon highlights, and a black collar. Something about her was unpleasant to the Vindicare, spiking a fear response that he did not recognize. Was it because she was from Atlas? He smothered it down. There was no indication that she recognized him.

"That's nice."

An awkward silence brushed through the group as the two made eye contact. A tumbleweed blew across the store. The Vindicare desperately needed to clean the store once everything was sorted out and done. It was a Traki-sty. Ruby introduced the two who had not formally met.

"Grey, this is Penny. Penny, this is Grey."

"Salutations!"

She spoke like a voice modulator, with unnatural emphasises.

"Hello."

Silence.

"So you are from Atlas as well?"

"Yes."

Another awkward silence. Everyone in the room cringed as the two tried to make conversation, and failed.

"Does that make us friends?"

"If you want?" The Vindicare was confused as he tried to discern Penny's intentions.

"Amazing! Two friends in a day! As they say, I am on fire!"

"I don't see flames."

"Are you two related by any chance?" Yang asked. She was trying to smile, but it came across as a look of pain as the joke passed over both their heads.

Penny and the Vindicare turned her eyes to look at her, before turning their heads. It was like a negative feedback loop. The more awkward the Vindicare got, the more awkward Penny got. Each had been trained to copy the body language of those around them to blend in. At this rate, it seemed that the two would revert back to callouts and binary.

"I am Ninety-Nine point Nine percent sure that I am not related to Grey. Grey, you you have anything to add?"

"Negatory. I am also fairly certain I am not related to Penny."

"Hoo-kay, that's going to give me nightmares." Yang said, stepping in between the two. "Glad that's all over with. You guys want to catch the next Bullhead to Beacon?"

"I'm sorry," Penny said. "I must return to my father before dark and I wish to explore Vale more."

"I have things to do."

"Alright, catch you guys later."

RWBY moved to leave. There was one last thing the Vindicare needed to say.

"Blake?"

She turned.

"You don't have to wear the bow anymore."

︻┻┳══━一_

"There is something lovely called a shower you could use right now."

Torchwick was as far away as the cramped interior of a Bullhead could allow. His suit was in immaculate condition, as always, but this time Vindicare's synskin suit was covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs. The fact that he was more willing to get close to angry terrorists, was telling of the Vindicare's condition.

After parting ways with RWBY, he spent a little more time with the monkey-faunus and Penny before they left. They were both transfer students, here for the Vytal Festival in a few months. The monkey-faunus, his name was Sun Wukong, was from Vacuo, and had stowed away on a ship to avoid paying for transportation. Friendly. Which was more than could be said about the one in the Bullhead.

The White Fang looked ready to run them both through, just for being humans. Torchwick kept an easy hand on his cane, and the flickers of his Aura told the Vindicare it was active. The Vindicare kept one on his knife, and another on the Exitus rifle that was on his lap. Its presence reassured him, and promised true action soon. He was wearing an ill-fitting White Fang mask, despite the thing being a mockery of the advanced suite of the mask he lost. It was a form of camouflage. If they were discovered, the blame would fall solely on the White Fang.

And Torchwick, but the city already knew Torchwick.

"How much longer?" Torchwick yelled to the pilot. The Bullhead they had was old, and the bolts used in its construction rattled in place as the airship flew.

"We're coming to the landing site in ten seconds, boss!"

"Grey, you're up."

The Vindicare, or "Grey" as most knew him on Remnant, nodded, and raised the Exitus. The back of the Bullhead opened up. A long time ago, in another time, in another place, he would've felt nervous.

As he dived from the airship, he wondered if he even had human nerves anymore.

︻┻┳══━一_

**Author's Note: This took a while. I'm afraid that the Vindicare seemed OOC for this chapter. So anyways TLDR, Dream Sequence, Exitus Manufacturing, Blake gets bamboozled and RWBY gets its shit settled a few hours before Canon, and then Vindicare jumps out of a plane. And the scene with Penny and the Vindicare was originally much longer, but I decided to cut it, because I felt second hand awkwardness writing it. Thanks for all the support, and as always if there are any massive errors that I have missed, just leave a review and I'll fix it. **

**Hasta la vista en cinco dias. **


	18. Grey: Volume One Finale

**Chapter 18**

Low altitude direct impact was the name of the jump he conducted. It was one he had practiced many times, some in the dark, some unexpected, but it was only the third time he had to use it in the field. Vindicare rarely had to enter a battlefield fully ready, what an LADI jump was designed to do.

The name was self-explanatory. Cinder's Bullhead was modified, and redirected its noise inwards, rendering it silent from the outside. Add in a camo-covering on the outside, and it was all but undetectable. A parachute would've revealed a falling Scion or guardsmen. The Vindicare impacted the building before he reached terminal velocity, and turned to his side to spread the momentum. It was silent, and painful on the joints, but more than survivable for an augmented.

A single guard heard his arrival on the rooftop, and turned, but the Vindicare was already on him. Adding in power from his legs, he drove his fist through the man's face. With not enough time to raise his aura, the man's skull crumpled into a pancake of bone and grey matter. There was little emotion from the Vindicare in the killing of the innocent guard, and even less as he unceremoniously caught the body from falling. He was a threat, one that could've compromised Torchwick's mission, and therefore the Vindicare's. He killed him with all the sentiment of a student doing his homework.

Raising the Exitus rifle, he walked over to the edge of the rooftop. It was a beautiful vantage point over the docks, one the Vindicare had scouted out prior. The docks had five guards, one he had eliminated, and two permanent on duty-Vale arbitres. It was those he was worried about, as he could not find them anywhere.

He conducted a quick mental inventory as he clicked the Exitus from hypersonic down to supersonic, and finally to subsonic. Twenty-three rounds, ten hellfire, nine shell-breaker, and four turbo-penetrators. Shell-breaker was for aura-only, but hellfire, and turbo-penetrators would be equally effective against unarmoured opponents.

Not like Remnant used ceramite or adamantium. Atlas had something close, but not quite as versatile. The point being, the Vindicare had plenty of ammo. He turned on the Exitus's silencers to their maximum, and scanned the premises. The lack of the spy-mask's scanners irked him, but he was trained to do without.

One guard was near the water. It was away from his standard patrol, and the guard was watching the splintered moon of Remnant, thinking about Emperor knew what. He was a youth, barely twenty, and trying to grow a beard. The Vindicare guessed that he either did not have an aura, or did not have it engaged. No worry, he could fire a follow-up faster than the teen could react.

A hellfire round disintegrated the guard's face, and threw the body into the water. The report of Exitus was barely a whisper. The Vindicare did not worry about the body floating somewhere inopportune. The bio-acidic virus round would eat it away in a matter of seconds.

Another guard hidden from the other behind a stack of crates. The Vindicare sighted in, compensated, and then fired. A half-tick later, the guard sagged forwards, his neck removed from a Hellfire round.

The fourth guard was near the warehouse's entrances, and in direct eyesight of the fifth in a nearby watchtower. Tower had their aura up, judging by the psi-spectrum integrated into the Exitus scope. Ejecting the magazine, he inserted two shell-breakers, before chambering one directly.

The guard near the warehouse didn't notice when the Exitus fired. Nor when the guard fell out of the tower, the piercing Dark Age technology of the shell-breaker ignoring the kine-shielding and removing the man's brain stem. It was only when the guard's body lost balance, fell over the side, and then burst open like a pressed glest on the pavement, spilling blood everywhere.

Then, the guard noticed.

But by then, a Hellfire had burrowed into his heart, and it was too late to raise either his aura or the alarm. The Vindicare cursed. The Vale Arbitres were walking towards the location, side by side. Both had sunglasses on, despite the dark, and one was heavily bearded. Beard pointed at the slumped form of the guard. Aura, black and brown swirled around them.

Both reached towards the voxes by their sides. With one press of a button, the VPD would come hurtling towards the premises. The Vindicare didn't have enough time to fire two rounds. He checked his angles, and the lethality of the marks. The power of Exitus was limited in its silenced mode.

A single shell-breaker spat out of the barrel.

In the infrared spectrum, the Vindicare watched it enter the soft tissue of the first detective's neck, rupture the arteries there, before traveling onwards, through the sunglasses of the second, planting into the bearded man's eye, and piercing into the brain. It was instantly lethal, which was more than could be said about the first. The detective pressed on his neck, trying to stop the bleeding.

Both men crumbled. Their vox radios fell onto the ground, untouched, as the first spasmed and tried to call for help. The lingering death left a bad taste in the Vindicare's mouth. It was one of the unspoken rules that a Vindicare's bullet was to be instantaneously lethal, just like how the Callidus slept with their victims before an assassination, and the Vanus deleted the retrieval-scripts from someone's cogitator. The Vindicare pressed on a microbead in his ear, one that Torchwick had given him.

"Clear."

"Copy. We're moving in."

Three bullheads materialized out of the air. Touching down, their metal ramps opened, and began disgorging terrorists. Torchwick's clothing made it easier to pick him out, a white dot among a sea of grey and black. The Vindicare centered his scope on the bowler hat, before zooming out.

From a distance, the terrorists looked like insects. He wondered how many he could take down before they retaliated. He could fire off five Hellfire rounds in a span of a second, roughly the amount of time it would take the terrorists to react. Those who had aura, would raise it, complicating the matter down to eight shell-breakers. Being terrorists, return fire would be sporadic and unaimed, less than enough to suppress.

Two, maybe three Hellfire, depending on the amount of psi the terrorist had, yielded two more down for the count. Out of ammo, he would have to jump down. The rest depended on a frantic melee, and the luck that whatever fully-automatic spray the terrorists could muster didn't hit him. It was funny. If they aimed, they would have no chance of hitting him, as he moved faster than the eye could track. Simply filling the air with lead, on the other hand, could ruin his entire week.

Torchwick's voice came in through his ear.

"How's it look up there?"

The Vindicare glanced around the docks. It was late, and nobody was around the commercial section of Vale.

"Still clear."

"Good. Can you come down?"

"What about overwatch?"

"Some complications with our _animal_ friends. Need you for something. Where are you?"

The Vindicare watched Torchwick wave his hand through the scope, the other on a Scroll. He was trying to find the assassin, looking for a glint of metal or something else that would give away his position. He would find nothing. The Vindicare was never that careless.

"I'm moving to you. Out."

He spanned a gap between buildings. Memories of similar hablock excursions on Terra came to mind. Moving fast but watching his step, until he was directly above the master criminal. Remnant's moon was on the other side, concealing his form as it slid down to the dock. A little calculation, a slight step and…

"Holy fucking shit!"

He hit the ground directly in front of Torchwick. It was loud, and alerted some of the closer White Fang. Those who had seen his handiwork looked away. Those who hadn't stared with barely concealed aggression.

"Reporting."

Torchwick recomposed himself, with a hand on his chest. "Did you have to do that?"

He shrugged. Practical jokes and jump-scares. Never got old even in the forty-first millenium.

"What's up?"

"Good work on the sniping." Torchwick toed the body of the detective next to him. "Close to perfect. _Someone else _screwed up, and by someone else, I mean the White Fang." The criminal spat onto the ground, and continued knowing that the terrorists couldn't hear him. "Gave us just thirty men instead of forty. One of their own snuck off yesterday, and the rest are hunting for him."

Tukson's disappearance had created more of a stir than the Vindicare had anticipated.

"No honour among criminals."

Torchwick looked at him. "Nah kid, you got it wrong. Plenty of honour among our types. No honour among fucking terrorists. They would stab you in the back if they could get away with it."

"Why?"

He shrugged.

"Do I look like a terrorist? Point is we're ten men short, and Cinder is going to roast me alive if I don't meet the quota. I need you to check these boxes, and mark them down for extraction if they have dust in them." He tapped one box on the side. "Then call for one of the terrorists to load them up. Got that?"

The Vindicare nodded.

"Great."

Torchwick tossed a crowbar over. The Assassin looked at it, and judged the weight.

"Get cracking."

︻┻┳══━一_

"Someone's coming."

The Vindicare looked up from a pile of splinters and nails. The past few hours had been box after endless box. Torchwick was not helping, standing behind him, and leaving the physical labour to the Vindicare. He had shed his outer layers, until he wore only the sweat wicking synskin suit, and the White Fang mask. The Exitus rifle was close by, but not in direct contact. It would've given him heat rash.

The dusk of the morning was appearing on the horizon, and the Vindicare was fatigued from both the lack of sleep for the past few days, and the exertion of breaking open an ocean of boxes.

"Hunter?"

"Looks like it. Nobody else dresses like that."

The Vindicare looked to find a orange-haired girl in a gray dress and overalls. It was the strange girl from earlier. Penny, if he remembered her name right, though she was a huntress in training instead of the full blown thing. Torchwick shook his head in a dramatic fashion.

"And we were almost done too."

"What do you want to do?" The Vindicare picked up the Exitus rifle, brushing the dust off it. It was a beautiful weapon, but not suited for close quarters. Ejecting the mismatched assortment of ammunition its magazines, he instead inserted it into the Exitus pistol by his side, and slung the rifle across his back. The little hell-pistol he crafted went in his off hand.

"Hey, you guys on me!" Torchwick shouted, getting the attention of a tactical squad amount of White Fang. They unslung sub-machine stubbers, and drew swords. "The rest of you get into the air!"

The terrorists did as he said, packing dust crates into the Bullheads. The ones Torchwick had signaled out approached from behind him. The Vindicare moved slightly to the side, just to be out of the direct line of fire once the idiot abhumans began to fire.

"Hello little girl."

Torchwick strolled towards Penny, the cane in his hand, as if he was on a early-morning stroll. It was an effect ruined by the fact that a dozen terrorists and the Vindicare were besides him, and that his aura was raised.

"You are Roman Torchwick, most wanted criminal in Vale and Atlas for accounts of theft, burglary, and armed assault. Surrender now, and I will arrest you. This is your complementary warning."

She took a fighting stance. Torchwick smiled as the White Fang and the Vindicare moved to flank her.

"Woah, easy there carrots. Can't help but notice, we out-number you. So why don't you turn around, and let the grown ups play? I think it's past your bedtime."

"Please do not resist. This is your final warning."

"So much for negotiations."

The Vindicare made it to Penny's extreme peripherals, beforeTorchwick's cane whipped out, a side blow that would've cracked a man's jaw. There was little warning, and would've given the Vindicare trouble dodging.

_What in the name of the Omnissiah?_

A pair of swords blocked it, extending from Penny's back. The Vindicare watched as more came out, each attached by micro-filamers. There should not have been enough leverage and power in those wires to hold them upright, much less control them with any degree of skill. It blocked the cane, and attacked Torchwick in a lightning flurry.

One suddenly swept towards the Vindicare, aimed towards his head. His eyes opened behind the mask, as he felt the wind pass as he sidestepped. Torchwick forced those on him off, and then looked behind him.

"What the fuck are you guys doing?"

The terrorists were standing around, mouths opened, and weapons lowered.

"Attack!"

A spew of infantry weapons fired. They were ineffective, compared to their Imperial derivatives, and the aim of the terrorists were atrocious. The Vindicare winced internally as he saw rockcrete from the other side of the docks light up.

Penny leapt into the air, something bright green propelling behind her.

In slow motion, he watched her smash into a terrorist, the White Fang's body rag-dolling backwards. A pair of swords sent another two flying.

Rounds tore up the ground next to her, but Penny smiled throughout it all. It was disconcerting, and if the Vindicare was being honest, creepy.

He aimed the hot-shot. Ls exploded, over and over again, in neat red lines that the Vindicare was familiar with. The rounds turned into light as they hit Penny's aura. There was no physical indication that her kine had been damaged by the attack, but Penny turned and faced the new threat. The White Fang terrorists were already defeated.

Him.

She barreled towards him. He shot again with the hell-pistol as she got closer, and rolled to the left as she made a direct pass above him. Scimitars surrounded him, and he fended them off, blocking, dodging, moving, even as he tried to get more shots off on Penny.

It was a ridiculous notion, but each scimitar was as strong as the Vindicare was, and he could not destroy the filaments that connected them. The swords flew back, and then stopped as Penny made a hand-gesture, the sharp ends faced him.

It would've turned him into a pin cushion.

They rocketed forwards, as he threw himself backwards. The Exitus pistol fired alongside its smaller cousin, striking Penny in the arm with a cloud of acidic red. He knew that the first three rounds in the magazine were Hellfire, and after that, there was a shell-breaker. Not enough time to chamber a round directly, and he was loathe to waste three more rounds.

Some sabers moved in a direct jabs, while others took arcs that would've lopped off pieces of his arms, legs, and head. It was impossible to weave past them all.

The hell-pistol was dashed to pieces, and another blade moved past his guard, even as he tried to parry it. Too slow. He was never too slow, but yet, there it was. The Vindicare felt the blade stab into his abdomen, and shear through the synskin, embedding into the flesh just above his hip bones. It was excruciatingly painful, and the Vindicare gasped, as he felt black blood drip down his legs, and onto the docks. Failing to balance the backwards momentum, he collapsed onto his rear.

Penny's eyes widened, and the sword retracted. The smile disappeared on her face, as the Vindicare watched her pupils contract, and then dilate rapidly.

"You don't have an aur-"

Torchwick fired off a salvo of rounds out of his cane. Like a bolter, they exploded upon impact. Unlike a bolter, the rounds were much slower than supersonic. Chunks of shredded steel and shrapnel hid Penny from view.

"You alright?" The criminal asked, pulling the Vindicare to his feet. "We don't have to fight her. Calvary's here."

Two bullheads came out from the sun. These were not the silenced transports the Vindicare had arrived in on. They were gun-ships, and a barrage of autocannon fire tore up the rockcrete around the Atlas huntress. Penny's smile returned.

The swords formed a circle, and as the Vindicare watched, a massive green las shot ripped through them. If it was a semblance, it was the most destructive one the Vindicare had seen yet. Terrorists fell out and slammed onto the ground, unconscious.

"Cinder is not going to be happy about that." Torchwick said, as the green las aimed towards them.

Torchwick jumped to a side. The Vindicare fell to the other. His wound reopened, pouring his lifeblood onto the floor. He needed to stop, give himself the chance to press the edges of the puncture together.

Fortunately, Torchwick gave him that moment when he attacked. The Vindicare pressed the severed, rough edges together, and punched the compartment by his leg to inject a stimm. The chems hit instantly and like they were covered in adhesive, the flesh rethreaded. When he was sure it would no longer tear with movement, he drew the knife.

Torchwick staggered backwards, into the Vindicare. Swords followed him. "Not good. We need to go."

Probably. Killing a huntress was not what the Vindicare wanted on his hands.

"I'll get the Bullhead running. Cover me!"

He ran. So much for honour among criminals. Penny faced him, the swords still glowing green vapours.

"Torchwick has abandoned you."

"He'll be back."

The Vindicare threw himself back into the fight, forcing himself as close as he could to Penny to force her into a dancing melee. Penny blocked the knife with a sword, but he caught her in the chest with a push-kick, and a direct punch to the forehead. It was like striking metal, and he felt the smaller finger-bones crack with the impact. Penny didn't seem to care, and continued attacking. The Vindicare deflected a sword into the side of a container unit.

Something was wrong with the way she was attacking. There was a hesitancy in her movements, and her swords carried no real weight.

"How are you combat-ready?" She asked, launching another flawed attack. "You do not have an aura."

"I eat my vegetables." He ducked, bypassed, and tried to bring the knife down on Penny's head. She caught the blade with her hands, and twisted, almost wrenching it from the Vindicare's hand. As he withdrew, her hands sparked upon contact.

Sub-dermal plating? Common on some urbworlds but here on Remnant with their warp-fuckery? A bizarre augmentation, if it was that.

"Impossible. The consumption of herbaceous plants cannot account for your skill level."

Abruptly, she stopped, and stepped back. The whirling blades formed a semicircle behind her.

"If you surrender, I can bring you to the General, and you may be able to appeal for a lesser sentence."

General? General Ironwood was in Vale city?

"Unlikely."

Ironwood was not all too fond of the Vindicare.

"I apologise in advance for my roughness, but I will have to arrest you now."

"Negative."

Her swords came at him, but he didn't engage. Instead, he sheathed his blade and ran away.

"Passing on your left!"

Torchwick's voice crackled in his ears. A Bullhead swooped down, and he matched the speed, the bones and muscles in his legs jarring with every step. When he got to the edge of the loading pier, he jumped with every ounce of strength in his legs. Normally, he would've made it, but fatigue and recently healed injury slowed him just a fraction.

He smashed onto the ramp of the Bullhead, scrabbling to find a handhold.

A strong arm caught him by the wrist, and he was hauled into the ship. Penny's glowing eyes were the last thing he saw on the docks as the ramp closed.

"My gods, you can run." Torchwick said as he waved to the pilot to go. She turned her multi-colored eyes away from the cockpit, and stuck her tongue out. It was the first, and only time the Vindicare was glad to see Neo.

The engine of the Bullhead rumbled into maximum. The Vindicare fell into a seat, the Exitus rifle on his back. Natural and synthetic adrenaline fading, he was exhausted.

"That could've gone better."

Torchwick snorted.

"You're telling me. First Red, and then her. I swear kids these days are getting more and more messed up."

The Vindicare looked at him.

"Aren't you a little young to be complaining about kids? You're what, forty?"

He saw Neo laugh silently from the mirror on the front seat.

"Twenty-nine…"

︻┻┳══━一_

"You should know better than to go running around in strange cities, much less going after criminal organizations. You could've been hurt."

"I'm sorry, sir."

The android lowered her head to the holographic image of Ironwood. He was there when she was first activated, and present for most of her early life. Disappointing a General was one thing, but disappointing her adoptive father was another entirely.

"Nevertheless, are you sure of what you saw?"

"Yes sir. I saw Anomaly B17 at the docks working with the infamous Vale criminal Roman Torchwick."

Ironwood put a hand on his chin. B17. The one who had burglarized his office and compromised the location of the Fall maiden. He had sent a warning to Ozpin, but apparently Vale had not captured him yet.

"What was he doing?"

"He was assisting with a dust burglary on the private Schnee docks in conjunction with the White Fang. Estimated victims on the report is seven. Two officers down."

A murderer as well. Ironwood felt his anger rising.

"Did you fight him?"

"Yes. He was able to fight on the level of a trained hunter. I was unable to capture him."

"Are you hurt?"

The false skin on Penny's right hand was sliced. Catching the blade had been a bad move. It was lucky her aura had stopped it from destroying the delicate mechanical coils in her hand. A few superficial wounds on her body where the knife had torn skin through her aura. Metal shown past them.

"Da-, sir, there was something else." She paused as she reviewed her memory of the fight. During no time in the fight had he activated his aura for anything. She would've been able to detect them with the scanners that made up her eyes. There had been no minuscule traces in his attacks. And then… One of her swords embedded themselves into his flesh. "He didn't have an aura."

Ironwood wanted to say that it was impossible. If Penny wasn't P.E.N.N.Y, it was possible that she had missed it. Maybe B17 was one to keep his aura wrapped incredibly close to his body.

But she was an Android, and the portable Aura reader she had would've been able to detect even that.

"He's an inactivated?"

"I don't think so. Sir, I didn't read a soul."

That was actually impossible. Even Penny, an artificial construct, had one, making her the first and only synthetic girl in existence. Souls were mutual to all of human-kind and some animals even though not everyone activated them. It was for good reasons. The more activated souls there were, the more Grimm were attracted.

Like lanterns, cities attracted Grimm continuously, waves of black around beacons of light. It was why the Academies were located far from the main buildings of a city, and why auras were not unlocked on birth.

To someone untrained, it would only serve to prolong their painful deaths.

"Are you sure of your reading?"

"Yes, sir."

His mind flickered around what could fight like a hunter without a soul.

Robots and Grimm.

It couldn't have been a robot, could it? Atlas led the world in cybernetic and robot development, the creation of both the Knights and Penny attesting to it. Everyone else, government sponsored or private, was decades away.

Plus a Atlesian Knight, while effective combatants of Grimm, were far below even a hunter-in-training. First years used them as training dummies, and in the five years they had been in service, there had yet to be one fatal accident or account of a Knight taking down a hunter.

So it's not a robot.

Grimm's fighting abilities were different. While the more ancient specimens were intelligent and could flank or retreat back to their dens, they still relied on primal attacks and raw power. A hunter could be beaten down by a massive Grimm that was centuries old, or overwhelmed by a horde in the wilderness, but no Grimm could've done what Penny described.

A man without a soul that could fight like a hunter. Impossible, but there he was. If someone else had told him about it, he would've dismissed it as fiction. But as the saying was, "Reality is often stranger than fiction."

What was it like not having a soul? Authors and some scientists said that souls were the first line of communication. Before first impressions, before words, souls would send out a little ping of acknowledgement.

Even animals such as dogs would do so. Different souls had different "notes" as the more lyrical would say. Discordant notes often set things off on the wrong foot. That didn't mean people had to be the exact same to like each other like Mantle had believed at the start of the Great War. Harmonious notes worked better than those that matched perfectly. It was how many believed that "opposites attract" and that there was "Love at first sight."

It was also why civilians panicked at the sight of Grimm. It was an indescribable feeling when one sense told you something didn't exist, and another could feel and smell it. It must've been a rough childhood. Unfairly ostracized, instantly disliked from the getup even by their own parents. A lonely childhood.

Ironwood felt a flicker of pity, before he crushed it. Loneliness or not, men had died.

Souls were also where all positive emotions emerged. With no souls, only negative emotions remained. Did B17 have feelings? If not, it was no wonder they had ended up on the side of the criminals.

Thought experiment over, he looked back at the projector on his desk.

Penny stood at attention, visibly distressed. She had yet to learn how to conceal her emotions, and he had to remind himself she still had the social etiquette of a small child. Ironwood smiled.

"It's alright, Penny. I wouldn't have expected you to be able to hold your own against someone who is a trained hunter in their own right."

She was still upset.

"Enough about B17. He will be found, and dealt with. I promise." Ironwood tried to distract her. "How was your first day in Vale?"

It worked. Penny literally lit up, her eyes started glowing green. "It was amazing! I made two new friends."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Ruby Rose and Grey Titus. They are both attending Beacon Academy..."

︻┻┳══━一_

**Author's note: End of volume one. Recap: In which the Vindicare murders seven people, and tries to fight a robot and fails. If you missed it, he is now down to seventeen original rounds, four turbo-penetrators, (a goofy name I know), five hellfire, and eight shell-breakers. He also lost the little pistol you may have remembered he made a few chapters back. If you're confused about the title, it's that in Canon, the title of the docks episode is Black and White, and those mixed together is grey.**


	19. Intermission

**Intermission**

"_You any good with that pistol you're sneaking around?"_

_Another cadet approached him. Her hair was dark, and cut to the scalp. She was around his age, the wire thin lines of augmented musculature showing in her short sleeve uniform. It must've been done on some back alley urb-street, since the Schola didn't augment its Progenas. Her voice revealed something accented, with harsh vowels and consonants. It came across as a barely concealed rage at the world and everyone in it. _

"_Half-decent."_

"_You're with me then."_

_She didn't give the boy any room for argument. He would have agreed anyways. Anyone who could spot his concealed carry, and was augmented to boot, was an ally to be treasured. The more bodies between himself and the trials ahead, the higher his chances of survival. _

"_Nicias."_

"_Furia. Don't bother learning it. You'll be dead soon."_

_Another cadet walked up to their newly formed group. He was an indeterminate youth, large healed gashes adorning his arms and dirty face. There was a manic look in his gaze that the boy recognized. It wasn't idle, but neither was it calculating, like some of the abbots found in the Schola. This was far more primal, something that transcended language and culture. _

_It was determination, a drive to live that could only be found in one place. The cadet's uniform was clean, but it was worn wrong, adjusted for comfort. The pants were one notch too tight, and taped over the legs and arms. The Progena in the boy cringed at the abuse of the uniform, remembering the punishment he had endured for a single misplaced button. But thus far, the Assassinorum didn't seem to care what it's cadet's did with their equipment. \_

"_You one need," he said, an incomprehensible babble, his lower gothic was damaged by time and lack of proper education save the hands-on. The broken speaker pointed to himself. "Eat, good at stab stab." He made knife motions._

"_Excuse me?"_

_Furia seemed confused._

_A story came to mind. Broken lower gothic implied an almost feral society. One that didn't care about uniforms or conformity. The adjustments were to prevent snagging, and for better fit. _

_Deathworld. _

_The harshest of Imperial planets. It was said that the vicious biospheres found on a Deathworld were uninhabitable to human civilization, and each was a demonstration of the sacred human spirit. With extreme weather, and aggressive predators, all who lived on a Deathworld were scarred, in spirit and in figure. It was a different skill-set from the boy's urbworld origins. Social deftness was replaced with bushcrafting, and the ability to spot a guttersnipe with hiding tracks and stalking prey._

"_Me join group."_

_Furia must've not recognized where the other was from. The boy seized the new relation, and extended his hand. _

"_Welcome to the team."_

_The deathworlder smiled, all canines, looked at the outstretched hand, and then sat down beside them. He smelled like urine and unwashed body. Furia looked at the boy with something that suggested displeasure. He mouthed "Trust me." She looked back at the scarred man, and then back at the boy. Five were what they got. Five needed to encompass all aspects, from medical to combat. A deathworlder was a valuable addition. _

"_Your funeral."_

_He doubted the Assassinorum would give them a funeral. By the professional nature of everything so far, crematorium or airlock was how he was liable to end up._

"_Hey you three!"_

_A massive man came forwards. A hulking figure, with a thick neck, and arms as large as a thigh. The boy doubted the bear would see his twentieth birthday again. They were all headed to the "Assassinorum" as the masked black characters called it, but there was little more than whispers and speculation. _

_The retired Magos Biologis that served at the medicae of the Scholarium had told him the Astartes needed to have their "gene-seed" implanted by adolescence. When he was younger, the boy had always wanted to be an Astartes. But with little more information than hear-say and legends, he knew the chance of possibility. His window passed in the Schola, but he never harboured any true dreams of becoming one. It was more than a far reach, further away than meeting a Primarch in the flesh. A degree of awe passed through him. Whoever the Assassinorum were, they must've had the technology to augment someone older._

"_Looking for another?"_

"_Depends on what you're offering." Furia said. _

"_Faruken Four hundreth and Sixty Eighth." The giant thumped his chest. "I was the designated marksmen."_

_Guardsman. More numerous than the stars in the sky. _

"_You see any action?"_

"_You ever hear about Gandos in the Leviathan Sector? Served there for six years." _

"_Welcome to the team, guardsman. We have dog-boy," she pointed at the deathworlder, "urbworld urchin," herself, "And…" _

_Her finger rested on the boy. _

"_Him." The three looked at him. He felt singled out, self conscious for the first time in many years. "Where are you from anyways?"_

"_Scholarium."_

_Furia rolled her eyes._

"_Oh fuck, I picked up a nerd."_

"_I can hold my own."_

_She scoffed. _

"_Doubt it. You've been molly-coddled all your life, what makes you think that-" _

_In a second, he slammed her into a wall, and had the laspistol facing her head. _

"_Want to try again?"_

_Before he could react, Furia threw him off. He stayed upright only because his legs were already bent, and she pushed on his chest, rather than his shoulders. The laspistol didn't waver in its aim. _

"_Guys cut it out!" The guardsman was trying to separate the two without favoring either side. He failed._

"_He tried to shoot me!"_

"_She started it."_

_He forced the two apart._

"_Then I'm ending it. We need to work together."_

_The boy begrudgingly put the laspistol back in his pants. Not many outside of their newly formed group had seen it, concerned with their own petty arguments. Furia turned her rage forwards to the guardsman. _

"_Who died and made you boss?"_

"_My sergeant." The guardsman's eyes dimmed for a second. He put his palms out, in a calming gesture. "Look, just trying to take charge here. Nobody's leading anybody, nobodies going to shoot anybody."_

_The tension absided. _

"_Speak for yourself."_

_Furia made a remark and the two began arguing. The deathworlder looked amused, and scratched at his face. He closed his eyes, and promptly fell asleep. Smart. Since being accepted, and brought onto the ship, he had yet to eat, drink, or sleep. The boy was wired up now, but he was beginning to feel the lack of proper care. _

"_What are they arguing about?"_

_The boy shrugged as the guardsman continued his beratement. He had lost track once the argument began veering off into insults and purple-prosed metaphors. Speaking of purple prose…_

_Either the deathworlder had suddenly woken up and started speaking in High Gothic, or the boy had gone insane from sleep deprivation. Neither was likely. _

_He turned to see a owlish teen, two neurotransmitters on the right side of his head. He didn't seem particularly dangerous, but the fact that neither the boy nor the deathworlder hadn't heard him arrive, made him keep a steady guard. _

"_Your group is looking for a fifth. I wish to join it."_

_It was a statement of fact, and the boy looked them down. They were diminutive in stature, with little muscle mass, and no sign of augmentix. He seemed to notice the boy's cursory assessment._

"_My apologies. I am Frisol Vogel, former scribe Secundus Minorus."_

"_Can you fight?"_

"_I do logistics, and have a variety of information that will prove to be useful. Case in point, should we fail to form a group of five, the Officio Assassinorum will murder us all."_

_A bolt shot silenced Furia and the guardsman. _

_Frisol smiled. _

︻┻┳══━一

Yang lay slumped over in the arena, unmoving. In the silence of the arena, the only noise was of a cartridge being ejected and tinkling onto the dirt floor. It was the end of the sparring match, his promised rematch to Yang, and the Vindicare was waiting any second now for official confirma-

"**MATCH!"** Glynda shouted, walking over to Yang, and patting her on the shoulder. To her relief, the blonde groaned and rubbed her head. "Mr Titus, you are aware that during sparring, practice grade ammunition is to be used?"

The Vindicare looked past the smoking barrel of the Exitus.

As far as he was concerned, it was practice ammunition. The Assassinorum had taught him that all ammunition was practice ammunition. All drills were live fire unless otherwise stated.

"To be perfectly fair, she literally asked for it."

︻┻┳══━一

"Sir!"

The Vindicare turned to see Cardin saluting in the dorm room. What for, he had no idea. Team practice had just ended, and the Vindicare was attempting to shave with his knife. The stubble was much longer than regulation, and becoming a hindrance during sparring. Plus, it was itchy. With only three cuts and a nasty epidermal burn, it was going better than the time he tried to give himself a haircut. The dorm room smelled like burnt hair for days afterwards.

"Winchester? What do you want?"

"Sir! I am requesting leave for semester break, sir!"

Oh. Cardin probably had family they had to visit. The Vindicare would have wanted him to stay to continue training. There was only a few months to the Vale Festival, and the team needed to be fully prepared. Logic dictated that he kept Winchester.

"Cleared."

"It'll onto be a for a short period of ti-" Cardin blinked. "Sir?"

"I authorize your leave." The Vindicare didn't turn around. "Go and visit your family."

"Sir, thank your sir!"

Morale needed to be maintained, and allowing for a small holiday would be more effective than any team bonding activity the Vindicare could think up. It was obvious that RWL of GRWL still did not like him, even if they respected him. If anything, he wanted a break from them as well.

Cardin exchanged a look with Sky that the Vindicare could not discern. It looked like a mix of pleading on Sky's part, and uncharacteristic camaraderie on Cardin's. An unspoken conversation played out, something that could only be shared between two people that knew each other very well.

"Sir, I would like to bring Sky along with me!"

"Ouch." The Vindicare sliced off a piece of his cheek. He pinched the jagged edges of the wound together "Why?"

"I-I want him to meet my parents."

Wasn't that a courting practice? He let go, ensuring the bleeding had stopped.

"I was unaware you two were dating."

"We're not-" Sky kicked Cardin in the shin. It looked painful. "Yes. That is what is happening.

Not the Vindicare's place to break apart a couple.

""Keep on track for your homework, and keep practicing for two hours every day. Otherwise, cleared," he washed his face off.

"Thank you sir!"

Sky and Cardin looked at each other, almost running out the dorm rooms. He splashed water over his face. Remarkable that they didn't bring any luggage, like they were afraid he was going to reverse his decision so quickly. He dismissed the thought as ridiculous. Perhaps they really wanted to begin the courting process? The Vindicare's mind wandered to a previous thought about contraceptives, and how fortunate that they were both male. Beacon's pregnancy policy made it a strict drop out.

Though he would have to take measures, if they began fornificating in the team room. He toweled off his face.

"Thrush?"

The mohawked boy sat up. He was not close to his family, and had no romantic partners. If Russel tried to leave, the Vindicare would know.

"I suppose we can work on your knife fighting one-on-one over the break."

Two weeks was more than enough time. Russel whimpered.

The Vindicare's phone rang. Perhaps a little later. Russel could use a break as well.

︻┻┳══━一

"Here are your three laser pulse rifles, fifty pulses for every trigger pull, ten nanosecond gap between each, and four hundred joules per pulse."

Ruddy placed each lasgun into a case. They were white, as opposed to the Cadian green most lasguns adopted, and were closer to the Triplex model than the more common Galaxy found in the Damocles gulf.

"As per request, power packs are as large as can be made in a portable magazine format. Fifteen megajoules per magazine. Ten seconds of continuous fire."

He stacked nine power packs on top of each other. They had LED indicators on their side to show battery life and battery health. They could not be charged like their Imperial counterparts in the sun or a campfire, and needed to be connected to an outside power source. A simple outlet would suffice, but outlets were hard to find in more remote locations. They could also not be detonated as an improvised explosive device.

Something about Vale safety laws and premature detonation.

"Sign here."

The Vindicare did. Ruddy took the form, and pushed the cases across the countertop.

"Thanks for the business."

The Vindicare took the lasguns, and started walking out. Ruddy recalled something.

"Hold on, I have another batch of those specialty bullets of yours. Want to test them?"

There wasn't anything else to do, being break. He had finished all the homework on the first day. The Exitus rifle was on his person, and he would get to fire it.

"Sure."

He set the lasguns down, and followed Ruddy to the indoor range. The elder artisan took a marked ammo box, and set it before the Vindicare. Within seconds, he was ready to fire, a round in the magazine. Batch Forty, Variant C

"I tried to do something uni-"

The Vindicare fired. Too high. He knew it was by fault of the round than by the gun or himself. He could zero on his own.

"So there might be a bit of discrepancy between the rou-"

Batch Forty One, Variant A, had a failure to extract. Variant B didn't make it through the level four plate. C never made it out of the barrel.

"I wouldn't get your hopes too high. It's still experieme-"

**BLA-AM.**

There was a neat hole, about the diameter of a fist, in the ceramic plate. The round had continued, penetrated the bullet catching wall at the far end of the indoor range, before embedding itself into the hard dirt off the ground. Somewhere, it must've hit a pipe, as a trickle of water flowed out of the hole.

Ruddy looked at his new property damage, and then back at the Vindicare.

He nodded.

"-ntal. "

Ruddy looked at his new property damage, and then back at the Vindicare.

"Would you look at that?"

︻┻┳══━一

Ozpin looked at the message on his scroll, along with the official police report. Five bodies had been recovered. They were heavily damaged, with evidence of being immersed in acid for an extended period of time. However, that could not have been, as the bodies were still on the docks, and showed no evidence of being moved from where they fell.

All soft tissue was totally destroyed, and in some cases, even the bones showed signs of decomposition. Whatever had happened to them had also damaged the genetic material.

It was only with dental evidence that the guards were recognized. Afterwards, the remains were scraped off and bagged. No progress had been made in the investigation.

It was a solemn day in the Vale Police Department as they mourned the two detectives lossed in what the headlines called "The Most Gruesome Burglary this Year." An Atlesian Huntress-in-training had encountered the bodies on a early-morning stroll, and tried to apprehend the criminals in the act, but failed. She described that there were two hunter level criminals.

Police sketches were drawn up, one of the perpetrators being Torchwick. The other was an unknown. Ozpin looked at the grainy footage of the combat. It was one security camera, almost forgotten in its location. Qrow's field investigation had only turned it up by chance as he landed next to it in his corvid form.

James had been remarkably silent about the upcoming festival, but promised to visit soon. The general was a blunt man at the best of times, and the lack of communication was out of character. However, Ozpin was not worried. James was a good man, and loyal to the core, despite the fact the two headmasters often butted heads over tactics.

There were three more words, the entirety of Qrow's field investigation. Ozpin drank from his thermos as he felt the shiver pass through once more. Once more, the cycle would continue. It was earlier than he had wanted, Ms. Rose not having graduated yet. The relics were still scattered, the maidens unknown or incapable. The peace following the Great War has allowed for an incredible advancement in technology, one that Ozpin had actively worked for. This lifetime was productive and the kingdoms were safer and stronger than ever before.

It wouldn't be enough.

How many would die this time around? How many had to die before _she _was satisfied? It had been a long time since he had last faced Salem.

_How long?_

A lifetime? Two? An eternity rested on his shoulders, as he felt the age of his current iteration.

**QUEEN HAS PAWNS.**

Gods save them all.

︻┻┳══━一

Cinder buttoned up the uniform.

It was conservative, a dark grey that signified her allegiance to Haven Academy. With the timing of the Vytal Festival, the first of the transfer students would be arriving to Beacon.

Lionheart, the headmaster of Haven, had provided her with everything she needed to attend Beacon.

It was perfect. Haven was one of the larger academies, large enough for the students not to know everyone in their class. It aroused no suspicion, whether by staff or by students, if she didn't know the other teams from Haven.

Her mission was the CCT tower, and crucial to the rest of Salem's plan. It was why she, herself, had to attend Beacon.

She trusted nobody else. Mercury and Emerald were skilled, but there was something else.

If you wanted something done, you had to do it yourself.

That didn't make it any less frustrating, though, to have to pose as an inane teenager. Or to not use her Maiden powers, too risky when both Ozpin and Glynda were present. It would be an unpleasant semester as the plan unfolded. Roman could be trusted to handle himself, though Cinder would rather not leave him to his own devices.

She looked at the mirror. Dark hair cascaded down to her shoulders as her cold golden eyes shined. A little older than the rest of the students, but not enough to arouse suspicion.

And certainly not lacking in looks.

"Do you have information on the team I asked for?"

"Yes, ma'am." Mercury handed her the folder. He had been a valuable asset ever since Cinder had picked him up from his father's murder scene, thus far, and loyal. Though loyalty with his kind was never assured. By any metrics, Mercury was a sociopath.

As far as Cinder could discern, he was in it for the excitement and the simple act of inflicting pain into others. Neither of which were in short supply working under the Queen of the Grimm.

Cinder flipped through the pages. Team RWBY was a varied bunch, clashing ideologies and personalities. Their formation was engineered, no doubt about it. Ozpin always believed diversity betrothed adaptability. She skimmed through the psyche reports and backgrounds, figuring out the best tactics against them.

Yang Xiao Long: Brash and easily angered. Parental issues from being abandoned by her birth mother by choice, and by her step-mother by death.

Weiss Schnee: Arrogant and often described as cold. The heiress of the Schnee Dust Company, her life was one of privilege.

Blake Belladonna: Stubborn and with trust issues. The daughter of Ghira Belladonna, chieftain of Menagerie. Interesting. Cinder read the next line. Did Ozpin know she was White Fang? If not, that could be used to divide the team, and perhaps get her expelled if she became a nuisance.

And finally the team leader herself, Ruby Rose. Daughter of Summer Rose, who died during a mission against the Grimm. Cinder didn't know why Salem was so insistent that Rose was to be watched. Naive, and idealistic, she would be the easiest to manipulate.

"And what did you find out about our ally?"

"Grey Titus. Trained in a Atlesian-style prep school here in Vale. Teachers say he's a pleasure to have in class."

Cinder frowned as she flipped through the pages. They had to be the most blatant fabrication she had ever seen. It might've held up on paper, but with any actual conversation, the counterfeit nature of the documents would've been clear. In any case, they were worse than useless.

"What have you gleaned from him?"

"I haven't been able to find him in Vale," Emerald answered slowly, as if Cinder was going to burst into flames at any moment. She shifted on her feet as Cinder looked at her. "Torchwick doesn't know where he goes, and neither does the rank-and-file Fang."

It was frustrating to have an unknown, but she was never one to punish someone for something that couldn't be helped. While she would've wanted Emerald to find out more, if Grey was secretive, nothing could be done. Cinder sighed. She still didn't know what he wanted, and a clash of hidden motives this far along could derail the entire plan.

"Never mind. Watch over team RWBY and our friend once we get to Beacon. However, do not draw attention to yourselves in any way. Is that clear?"

"Yes ma'am." they chorused.

She watched them for any sign of rebellion. Satisfaction when there was not. They were trained well, and would follow her orders to the word.

The Queen demanded nothing less.

︻┻┳══━一

"Rematch."

"No."

"Rematch."

"No."

"Rematch."

Yang had been like this for the better half of fifteen minutes, and the Vindicare was feeling the beginning of a headache.

"I can leave."

"Not from Beacon. You have detention."

"Detention because of you."

"Details, details." Yang shrugged. "It's not like we're have anything better to do during the break."

"You have your movie-night."

Ruby shrieked in a way that would make a Howling Banshee clasp their ears.

"Omigods, we can't go to the movie theater since you have detention!"

That was fine by him.

"You can always go without me."

"No, this is unacceptable!"

It was worth a shot.

︻┻┳══━一

**Author's Note: Begin Volume 2: FIGHT! I forgot to say that I was going to take a short break so sorry if you freaked out, the fic is not dead, and we're be resuming normal schedule by the end of this week. TLDR: Shit's going to hit the fan, and very quickly. We have canon Cinder entering Beacon, Ozpin being mysterious, and the Vindicare being the Vindiderp. I will have to warn you, my work hours are fluctuating very heavily in anticipation for the holiday season, so I apologize if I have to take a break sometimes. I will tell you guys if this fic is close to being abandoned. RWBY Volume Seven is close to being released, and I will maintain my current plotline even if something gets retconned or a huge canon piece is introduced. Feel free to correct me on any egregious lore issues.**

**Thanks, and see you in five days ish. It's really more of a suggestion.**


	20. Cornered

**Chapter 20**

"You choose to sleep in someone else's room with uncomfortable sleeping pouches that are inferior to normal bedding?"

"Yep!"

"In unappealing custom attire that is specifically designed for this purpose and cannot be worn anywhere else except for this purpose?"

"Yep…"

"While not bringing weapons and leaving yourself open to any attacks?"

"Yep?"

"And this is supposed to be fun?"

Ruby looked confused at the questions he was asking. It was perfectly reflective to the fact that the Vindicare was confused. It was insanity to not only leave the Exitus alone, but leave oneself defenceless on the floor, no less, for pleasure.

The day before initiation, the Vindicare practically got no sleep in the ballroom as he awoke to any sound. It was the same in his dorms. A deep sleep was an easy way to wake up with a stiletto in one's ribs or an Ork screaming in their face. Why would he choose to subject himself to that?

It sounded like a cruel guardsman's drill cooked up in some febrile sergeant's head above anything else. Maybe a Cadian tradition. There was a reason the planet broke before the guard did.

The only people who would find it fun would be the Krieganss, and the tastes of the Krieg were… Well. Recreational suicide would be the most apt description. They had to be the most insane members of the Imperium.

Assassins could endure pain beyond compare, run into the most dangerous of situations, all with mortal wounds. But, assassins analyzed, minimized, handled threats as they came. It wasn't out of concern for themselves, rather, the knowledge of their value and training. The Imperium spent a small fortune training and augmenting each and every of the Emperor's needles.

Not Krieg. Krieg took rounds so that Leman Russ would not. They formed bridges with their bodies. When they could, they roped opponents into their preferred form of combat, trench warfare, a war of attrition that yielded no winners, only one side with less casualties.

Nora leaned over from harassing Ren.

"I don't get it Grey-ny," The Vindicare winced as Yang gave a thumbs up, "How have you never had a sleepover?"

"First, don't call me Grainy. Second, I didn't have enough time in Atlas."

"Weiss is from Atlas, and even she's had a sleepover before!"

Weiss made an indignant sound.

"I have never done something so childish."

"But she knows what one is! It's like if you said you don't know what pancakes are!"

"What is a pan cake?"

Nora made a face that looked like the Vindicare had personally killed her parents and then pissed on their corpses. The table underneath her hands cracked, and the Vindicare felt an unaccustomed surge of panic.

Ren put his hand on Nora's shoulder, and then tapped her on the nose. Whatever that gesture was, it seemed to placate the redhead, and she smiled sheepishly. Ren looked at the Vindicare.

"What part of Atlas are you from, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Block Byzantium."

Weiss leaned in and nodded.

"It's a dangerous part of Atlas. The majority of our crime comes from that sector." She looked like she was deep in thought. "Are you a Faunus?"

The Vindicare and Blake both looked at her. Weiss spluttered.

"I mean- There is nothing wrong with being a faunus, it's just…"

The Vindicare answered for her.

"While, he Byzantium Block is full of faunus, I am not a faunus."

It was the second time the Vindicare had been mistaken for one. Tukson, now Weiss. What type of Faunus would he be? Perhaps a nocturnal flying mammal. To be mistaken for an abhuman… A lethal insult in the Imperium. It was fortunate, he was never one to anger easily. Maybe it was something with his face? He scratched at a shaving cut.

"Why didn't you go to Atlas Academy?" Weiss asked.

Why didn't she? She was the inheritor of the Schnee Dust Company. If anything, Weiss should have stayed in Atlas. Beacon was the number one ranked Huntsman Academy, but Atlas was a close second.

"Both my parents died."

"Oh."

The table silenced. For once, Nora was quiet. Ren and Nora looked at each other, before looking at him. They shared a sympathetic nod of understanding.

"It's alright. I have had time to adjust."

The Vindicare never knew his parents, but they must've existed. At the tender age of eight, both him and his short-lived brother were thrown onto the streets. He had slain his brother for a blanket. Better one tainted survival, than two honourable deaths. The cloud of sadness lingered, as the huntsman and huntresses remembered their own fallen.

"Stop thinking about it. So this "sleepover" of yours… When do I show up? And what do I bring?"

"Eight?" Ruby said, closing one eye and looking at the ceiling. "Any time after eight. PJs only, of course. Don't forget to bring snacks!"

Did reconstituted nutrition bars count?

︻┻┳══━一

Each guardsman carried two, one for combat, and one for general use. Nobles, and Generals, far from the front ranks of combat, carried an ornamental, displayed for show. Even the Vindicare, ranged specialists at distances beyond eyesight, had one tied down on their waists.

There were so many models, and between two individuals, the design and purpose could be so different and particular that the other could not use the former's without difficulty. And yet, so easy to manufacture, even feral worlds could smash together one just as effective as the finest Catachan Claw. They never needed to reload. They never jammed. They were more effective than both lasguns and autoguns against creatures of the warp, the symbolic meaning behind each, so profound, that they could tear the hide of a Greater Daemon where even a heavy bolter would struggle to find purchase.

Mankind's best invention, the rugged knife. A flattened and sharpened piece of steel, attached to a less sharp end that could be held. Far simpler than the masterwork of the Exitus, it was an invention so widespread across the galaxy that it was said there was one for every Xeno's throat, and then change.

The basics of fighting with a knife were simple. Insert the pointed end into the opposition, while trying to not have the same happen to you. Simple and effective. Difficult to master, but easy to pick up.

Which made it all the more unacceptable that Russel, someone who had trained with Shortwing their entire life, would be so inadequate. Shortwing was impractical, but it was sharp, and useable as a sword. It was not a dagger as Russel insisted on calling it. Etymology besides, he was not using them as a dagger, favoring slashes over precise piercing attacks. Or not using them at all.

"Why are you trying to kick me?" The Vindicare shouted, catching the mohawked teen in a roll, and then slamming him into the ground. "You have a knife! Use it!"

Russel threw himself out of the Vindicare's grip, and then attacked. For some damnable reason that drove the Vindicare half-mad, Russel threw a fist with the knife in it instead of stabbing or slashing.

The Vindicare met the fist, with his own, snapping Russel's elbow back. He wanted to break the bone at the joint, but that would also end the sparring round. Showing restraint, Russel's aura tanked the blow, dipping into the threshold to end a spar.

"Attack with the sharp end!"

That was never a statement the Vindicare expected himself needing to use, or ever needing to use and he had been embedded into a conscript squad before! Russel compiled, finally deciding to ineffectively hack at the Vindicare. Better, but he only used one knife at a time, rendering the two blades useless. Keeping concise angles, and maintaining footwork, the Vindicare kept himself flexible and free of tension as he evaded. Concentration was tiring, and while Russel was a beginner, the Vindicare needed to ensure he did not receive an impromptu stomach piercing. A few drops of perspiration fell down his face.

And then Russel did something tremendously stupid. The Vindicare kicked Russel in the back, sending him sprawling onto the dirt of the combat arena.

"Why did you turn?!"

The Vindicare said, too dumbfounded to continue attacking. Russel tried to explain.

"Sir, I was trying to set up a spin attack, sir!"

The hell did he pick that up from? It wasn't that he couldn't. Russel had the acrobatics. It was just, that the move would expose an entire section of the body, while taking their eyes of the enemy. Virtual suicide against any opponent of higher calibre.

"Well, wherever hell-spawn of an instructor you learned that from, stop doing that." The Vindicare took another position. "Again!"

They launched themselves into a flurry of movement. The blades sparked against one another, as the Vindicare arranged them into harmless positions. Using his own knife would've made it easier, but the Vindicare did not want easy. At the crescendo, when the Vindicare was beginning to feel a fraction of muscle leadedness, Russel threw a knife at him.

It was a good surprise attack.

Or it would've been if the blade was a tenth of the size, and going at twice the speed. And if Russel was not facing a royally pissed Imperial Assassin acting as a make-shift instructor, trained to dodge bullets. Without the element of surprise, it really wasn't an attack, so much an offering. Maybe it would've worked if the Vindicare was asleep. It definitely didn't when he caught the knife's hilt in his hand.

He threw Shortwing back, an almost lazy trajectory.

Russel caught the dagger, if catching could be defined as being smashed hilt-first into the face. A green ripple lit up the arena as the green-haired teen crumpled. The Vindicare stretched himself out. Aura broken, training over.

"Your foundation skills are solid, and you have the necessary agility and strength to wield your weapons correctly. But please refrain from attempting stagecrafts."

Now to prepare for the task at hand. The Vindicare ruffled his hair, and wiped some sweat off. A shower was in order. The sun was just beginning to dip below the walls of the arena, and he needed to go to the drill sleep exercise, something that he still had fully grasped the purpose or technicalities.

"Do you know what you would wear to a sleepover if you do not possess pajamas?"

Russel didn't answer.

"Thrush?" The Vindicare turned to find an unconscious adolescent.

Russel's body moved with breath, which was better than the alternative. He turned him over. There was a hilt-shaped impression on the flesh of the forehead, rapidly swelling and turning red. A concussion, no doubt. The Vindicare felt a trace of apology. He should've been able to tell that Russel's aura was too low to handle a projectile of that admittedly limited power.

"I should get you to the infirmary."

And then the sleepover.

︻┻┳══━一

"You're telling me you sleep in those."

Ruby looked angry, a childish pout on her face. It was more adorable than threatening. Around him, RWBY and JNPR were in clothes the Vindicare had never seen before, almost undressed by his standards. Fortunately, Jaune was not in his onesie, choosing a far more fashionable loose fitting t-shirt and shorts. When asked, Pyrhha dryly stated the onesie was lost in a laundry accident. She was in a brown button up.

"Weiss is wearing a dress."

"I'll have you know that this is a sleeping gown." Weiss said, high-fiving Blake, who was in a similar garment that instead ended at the waist, revealing two cream coloured legs.

"Those look uncomfortable," Ren said, in baggy pants that had legs that were wider than his head. The pink-eyed mutant's jacket looked soft. The Vindicator wished his would stop giving him an unwanted tourniquet.

The synskin suit was true to its name, and adhered to him as well as a second layer of skin. That being said, around the harder armour plating near the groin, it pinched.

It was never designed for him to sit down. Running yes, with the full suite of acrobatics that often accompanied it. A supported crouch was how he normally braced himself.

"Isn't that your combat outfit?" Yang asked. She was in a short cropped tank-top that left little to the imagination. It took a supreme amount of effort to keep his eyes away.

"Yes."

Sitting on the floor of RWBY's dorm, he was afraid he was going to push his testicles into his body. It certainly felt that way. The synsuit was great combat gear, terrible casual wear, and even worse sleep garments. It was a fact further supported by the automatic energine injectors, and neural stimulators. It was difficult to sleep with twenty drugs rushing through your system, and while the suit continued pricking you for vitals.

There was a reason he slept naked, even though wearing the synskin suit would allow him to reach combat effectiveness in a much shorter time.

That and the sensation of fishing a retractile testicle from his groin was the single worst non-combat pain possible. Save him the gunshot wound and enhanced interrogation resistance training. He wanted to know how to take damage to the reproductive organs and continue functioning.

Yang looked around.

"Where's the rest of your team?"

Russel was in the sick bay. He had a level two concussion and a minor skull fracture. The nurse and doctor had both demanded to know how he had gotten injured. The Vindicare didn't get what the fuss was about. Sure, he had disabled the safety features in the arena, and attacked an aura-less opponent, but there was only a 20% chance of permanent brain damage! A stimm, and a healing stimm at that, had a higher chance. No harm, no foul, that's what the Officio said. Of course, there was plenty of harming, and plenty of fouling, but it was the reflection that mattered.

He slipped out the back when the two were busy monitoring Russel.

"Russel got injured during a sparring session."

"Oh how terrible," Pyrrha said, holding her hand over her mouth. "I wish him a fast recovery."

The Vindicare did too. Training wasn't over yet.

What were Winchester and Lark doing? Oh right…

"Cardin and Sky are dating, and Cardin wanted Sky to meet his parents."

"What?"

Everyone looked at him.

"Cardin and Sky, my teammates…"

"No, we got that part." Jaune said, waving his hands. "Cardin is gay?!"

The Vindicare also wondered how that got past him. Cardin had shown to be nothing but heterosexual, up to the moment of the reveal. Not wishing to seem out of the loop about his own teammates…

"Yup. Always was."

"Huh."

Yang looked confused.

"He tried to ask me out."

"How'd that go?" Blake asked.

"I kicked him in the balls, and told him to screw off. The point being, you sure about this Grey? You're not exactly a people person."

"Absolutely. Cardin is as gay as a… circle?" The simile needed work. "He might be bisexual."

"Right."

The moment hung in the air.

"Sooooo," Yang said, "Since everybody is here, we can start having fun! First order of business, drinks!"

She produced two bottles of amasec.

"YANG!" Ruby's voice was a shriek. "Where did you get those?"

"Secret."

She began hitting the blonde.

"Did anyone bring something to eat?" Yang said, her shoulder being buffeted by a number of small blows.

"I brought bread."

The Vindicare set a clear plastic bag in front of the group. Inside, was a very deflated and sad looking loaf of white bread.

"Did anyone other than Grey bring something to eat?"

"Yeah, we brought chips!" Nora chimed in, emptying her entire sleeping bag, which was apparently, full of salted crisps. There was even one in pancake flavour.

Yang passed cups of amasec around. Everybody took it as if it was dangerous volatile promethium. The Vindicare took a tentative sniff of his. It wasn't poisoned. The brawler gave him a knowing smile and winked.

"If you guys can walk at the end of tonight, I've failed. Cheers!"

He drank. They drank. The flavour entered his mouth and began burning the back of his throat.

Immediately, Weiss, Ruby, and Jaune began sputtering and coughing. Blake, Pyrrha, and Ren did better, whether by prior experience or stronger discipline to reactions. In between coughing fits, Ruby managed to stammer out, "Weiss, I thought you drank at your fancy Schnee parties."

"I drank wine! This is…"

"Vale Royal Cinnamon. One hundred twenty proof."

It was what Torchwick drank. They looked at him. "What?"

"Didn't expect you to recognize it."

"I am a real party mammalian."

"Having a real hard time believing that," Yang said, as she poured everyone more drinks. "But if you're such a party animal, tell us a story."

"Ooh, make it a scary story." Nora mumbled, mouth full of crisps. Ren was desperately trying to water down her drink.

"A scary story?"

"Full of ghosts!"

He thought of the children's tales back on the urbworld he had come from. Which fit a horror tale? Santa of the Claws? It was said he killed any child who didn't say their Pax Imperialis in time for Sanguinala. Perhaps of the mystical Bone Collector? A flying Xenos species that was said to remove the still warm teeth from those unlucky enough to encounter it.

There were so many stories born from missions as well. The infilitration of the Compsonius family, and the assassination of Head Lord Jason. It was a simple enough deep infiltration, but the Vindicare stumbled upon a torture chamber. The things he saw…

He shuddered. Dark Eldar were not the only sadists in the galaxy.

Or of Operandi Astra Helix, where he was sent to quell a rapidly expanding infection that threatened to damage two entire Sectors. In the end, the only solution was exterminatus.

"I don't know many horror stories."

"Aw, c'mon, you can think of something."

The Xonia Xenos Affair? The Genestealer infested Schola? There were so many missions that the Vindicare had untaken, over one hundred on Terra alone, while he was in training. Then there were the missions, he should probably not mention on Remnant. The destruction of a Xenos nursery, and euthanization of infested human children, being two examples.

In the end, he decided on a story.

The story.

It was a story of HIM, his efforts to leada humankind back into the stars, and a hope, a hope for progress that was dashed before it could even begin to flower.

The Vindicare altered details, changed names. He was sure that the Emperor's light had not touched Remnant, but the planet was not inter-stellar, and certain details did not make sense without context.

"I have one."

And then he started.

_There was once a wizard who wanted to improve his village._

_The nights were cold, and the predators fierce and numerous. He knew he was the best suited for this task, and he began with a ferocity unseen before, or since. With cunning politics, and willpower, he became the leader of his village._

_He managed farming, transportation, healthcare, even mustering up a village guard to protect against predators. Lifespan rose as well as general quality of life. But there were other things in the night, evils beyond compare, the Primordial Foe. The man fought against them with his magics, and they shirked away, unseen but not forgotten._

_For a time, the village grew under his care. _

_Soon, he realized that he could not handle everything at once. He wanted to expand his lands, and the administration process had grown beyond his capabilities. _

_For this task, he gave the responsibility to eighteen sons, golems that he had animated with care and loving attention. _

_Each was unique, a spark of the man's willpower and intellect. But before he could finish training them, the primordial evils struck, and all were kidnapped and scattered across Remnant. _

_With the sons, his plan was flawless. Others may have stopped there. But the man was special. The man saw his vision, a unified kingdom, and knew that it was delayed, rather than destroyed. Gathering up a new militia, he set out, determined to find his sons, to set his plan into motion._

_Horus was discovered first, charming and well liked, a natural leader, and the closest to the man. He was crowned the Warmaster, and given his own squadron to command._

_Eventually, each son was found again, and taken from where. Some were happy with the man's judgement. Others, less so. Still, they worked together, and soon, there was a nascent kingdom sprouting from the man's village._

_The man saw the breadth of it, and was unsatisfied. Travel was dangerous, and he wished to improve on it. Shutting himself back in his ancestral home, he worked day and night attempting to come up with something better._

_Alone, his sons continued onwards, without his judgement. Those unsatisfied from earlier, complained amongst themselves. Some began studying the evils, despite previous warnings from the man. One, the man's most intelligent son, Magnus, thought that he could use the magic from them to help his own men. _

_Some of the sons believed the man had abandoned them. Discontentment rose, slowly but unstoppable._

"But then they came to their senses, and they lived happily ever after!" Ruby declared. "Right?"

The Vindicare stared at her until she was silent again.

_As the moment of His return came, the primordial evils whispered into the mind of the man's favorite son. Horus was corrupted, his mind full of hateful whispers. He seized upon the feelings of betrayal, the restlessness, of his brothers, and took up arms against his own father. _

_War raged, and the new kingdom was rocked to its still-setting foundations. As the fighting continued, lines broken, brother against brother, Horus came to be in the original village of the man._

_The man refused to fight at first, believing his son to be wayward, able to be corrected. Even throughout the fight, as Horus beat his father to an inch of their life, he withheld his full power. Only when one of the oldest village guards entered, and was obliterated by the evil infused Horus, that the man saw the extent of the corruption of his favorite son._

_The man brought his full magical might on Horus, cleansing both body and soul. Before the Warmaster died, he saw what he had done and was horrified. _

_The man's injuries were extensive, and he was quickly treated and brought back to his home village. He never recovered, falling into a deep coma, to which he remains to this day._

_Without his guide, his kingdom stagnated, worshiping the technology the man developed as magic. The Primordial Evils returned, stronger than ever, corrupting more and more villagers every year..Hope has been lost. Eradicated diseases plague the kingdom._

_Only a few of the village guard remain, _

When Vindicare was finished, the group was silent.

"Wow." Yang said, her drink forgotten. "That was depressing."

Blake tilted her head, and looked at the Vindicare.

"I don't see the moral. Was it to be happy with what you had? The wizard had already taken his village. Were you trying to say that he didn't need to expand further?"

"There isn't a moral."

"Oh."

"Where did you hear this story?" Weiss asked. "I have never heard of this wizard tale."

"My parents told me it before they died. I don't know where they got it."

It was a double explanation. Each isolated planet had their own customs and tales, unique to their world. It was true to Remnant too, just to a lesser degree. If his parents were Atlesian poor, there could be dozens of less known stories circulating, some of which Weiss did not know. It made it harder to pinpoint exactly where the Vindicare was from, if anyone ever asked.

"What I don't understand," Jaune said, "Is why the wizard dude didn't tell his sons what he was working on."

The Vindicare always wondered that himself. The indoctrination made it impossible to question the judgement of his superiors, much less the Emperor, but it was built around loyalty, not free thought. An Assassin needed to be able to apprehend his environment and adapt accordingly. A fixed Assassin was a dead Assassin.

After countless history sections, and some discussion with his Master, he had summarized it into six words.

The Emperor was just a man.

It seemed heresy to even think it, but that must've been the truth. A great man, the best, but a man nonetheless. He did the best he could, more than anyone else, but it wasn't enough. The Vindicare took a deep drink.

Blessed be the Emperor, for we all walk in his immortal shadow.

"What happened to the sons afterwards? Why didn't they lead the kingdom?"

"They disappeared."

"Where's the happy ending?"

"There isn't one."

There never was. Stalemates were more than common, groundlocked Ork invasions grinding out over the course of decades as territories were lost and gained. Many a situation could not be improved, only maintained. Mountains of men died to seize a city, only for their victory to be short lasted in the face of an orbital bombardment.

"Good thing it was just a story," Yang said, shivering once. "Magic isn't real."

Everyone agreed.

"After all that deep stuff, anyone wanna play never have I ever?"

"What's never have I ever?"

Nora laughed, and everyone joined in afterwards. The heavy atmosphere broke.

"Grainy, what have you been doing the last seventeen years?"

The Vindicare shrugged.

"Lot's of things."

"Great! Then you'll love never have I ever…"

︻┻┳══━

"Sir, we're in position."

Ironwood looked through one of the chest rig cameras. He wanted to be there, but the appearance of a Headmaster unannounced, especially Atlas, with its history of overbearing politics, was liable to become a international incident.

This was close, but slightly better.

He could deny knowledge.

The grainy footage showed the soldiers were right outside of Beacon. It was a team of ten, and against anyone else, Ironwood would not have felt any nervousness. Each was a trained professional, a mini hunter in their own right. Time would tell if it was enough.

"Proceed."

︻┻┳══━一

**Author's note: I can no longer do five day updates.**

**I have paperwork everywhere. I haven't done laundry in three days. Theres a pile of plates in my sink a man high. In other words, I've been busy as balls. **

**I'm going to be serious with you. Work has been really frantic, and I predict it will only be worse going into Thanksgiving and the Holiday season. I have a outline and short summary of each section and what is supposed to happen. The instant, and I mean the instant, I feel I cannot continue this fic, I can give this outline to whoever wants to carry this fic to its end.**

**As always, tell me if I screw up grammar or for any typos. Until then, see you in seven days. **


	21. Escape Blocked

**Chapter 21**

The Vindicare was shooting much more than he thought he needed to.

Green las lanced through the air, but it felt ineffective. His target refused to go down politely, but with each shot, they staggered closer and closer to the end. Finally, the figure fell into oblivion.

"Stop spamming your ranged attack!" Yang said, throwing her scroll onto her bed. She missed, and instead fell over. There was a slur in her words, and if the red flush on her face was any indication, Yang was "shit-faced" as she called it. "It's nah fun."

He raised an eyebrow.

"It's effective."

The Vindicare set down his scroll.

Little characters danced around on his hololith, backlighted by bright colours, and flashing images. The combat simulation was fun, but unrealistic. People could not jump midair. Emperor knew that the Assassins tried. It would've made the Terran phase of his training much easier.

"It's not fair," Weiss slurred. "How are you still aight? You drank like… three!" There was a pause as the heiress tried to think, "More than meeeeee."

Exhausted by the effort, Weiss collapsed onto her bed.

"I've had some practice."

The biofiltration unit installed in his kidneys also helped.

"Yeiah, i didn't kgnow you've caen drifa baelhead by yourself."

Ruby said, her head in her pillow. Her speech was incomprehensible. Her short stature and relative inexperience affected her the worst, but by some force of nature, she was still awake. The same couldn't be said about Jaune and Pyrrha, who had fallen asleep entangled in each others arms.

It was telling that there was no teasing from Yang, about the fact. By his estimate, the entire group was combat ineffective. At the current rate of amasec consumption, a trip to the privy was long overdue, and a hefty quantity of pain pills would be needed in the morning.

"Beg your pardon?"

"She's saying that she didn't know that you can drive a Bullhead."

A Valkyrie, but no one on Remnant would know the difference. In any case, he was sure he could adapt to any miniscule differences in Remnant's native troop transport. An Assassin could pilot all forms of standard Imperial transportation vehicles, no matter how modified. In fact, tt was a point of great mirth among the more lucid Officio agents that an Eversor had the same ability in driving as a veteran Leman Russ crewman.

To convince them to take a vehicle rather than a headlong rush that eviscerated everything in their path, now that, that was a challenge. In regards to the Eversor, getting them to do anything with a modicum of attention was a mission in itself. Usually they were just awakened and thrown into action from orbit. Eventually, they would get to the actual target. The Officio can't be revealed to the general populace if there was no longer a general populace!

After everything in a hundred kilometre was reduced to a red stain, and if the Eversor was still alive, a specialized retrieval force was sent to sedate, if slightly less furious was sedated, and retrieve meant, shoot until the Eversor in question could no longer move.

"I don't understand how you can translate that."

The Vindicare nodded at Ruby. Yang shrugged, and lay her hand on Ruby's head, stroking her hair roughly. The redhead groaned.

"I had to take care of her when she was younger after Summer died. You pick up some things."

Ruby shot up, and then looked around.

"Weear dyid Blaek, No raaa and Rain ago?"

Her unfocused eyes looked at the Vindicare. The silver seemed to shine in the dark light.

"Yool weard."

She crumpled.

"Nora went to go get some food. Ren followed her. I think Blake went into the closet, and didn't come back out? She also called you weird."

The Vindicare looked at Yang.

"That's rubbish to me."

Yang snorted.

"You'll understand if you had a sibling." Yang said, smiling, and patting Ruby more gently. She cocked an eyebrow. "But I have to know… Where did you learn to drive a Bullhead? That needs a license or something."

"..."

"Or cook?" Yang started counting on her fingers. After reaching ten, she looked back up at the Vindicare. "And how did you manage to break literally every bone in your body?"

"Secret."

"Ruby was right. You are weird. And it's not just because of your semblance or something. I still don't get what it is. Is it just making people feel creeped out?"

His null aura was mild, and only extended to slightly beyond his skin. It was also weak. A few raised hairs, chills, feelings of panic. At any distance beyond direct contact, and if he made sure he never made continuous eye contact, it could be hidden. The biggest danger came from the sparring sessions, where he had to dart from companionable distances to more intimate. The saving grace was that the nature of the sparring sessions, chaotic and heated, masked the symptoms of his blankness with regular battle fervor and uneasiness.

Irritation.

The Vindicare should've prepared for the externality that in the close proximity of the sleepover, the others would discover it. A thought turned over in his head. He could kill two razorwings with one stone.

The Vindicare didn't have a semblance, unusual among those attending Beacon. Most had already been unlocked and trained in prep academy. Jaune was the only one that still lacked his, and that was due to the fact that he had not attended prep academy.

"Yep. It's called Infrasound. Makes it uncomfortable to be next to me, and to develop personal relationships.."

"No offense, but that sounds awful."

"I've gotten used to it. Luck of the draw and all that."

It made infiltration simultaneously difficult in some aspects, and easier in others. Augurs tuned to the psychic frequencies couldn't directly detect him, but they could detect a slight blur and smearing of the Warp where he stood. And social interactions were difficult when everyone had an instinctive dislike of your organs before you even opened your mouth.

It was a part of a larger spectrum of abilities that made his Lord Assassin consider him ready after only eight years of training. The biggest risk for a fledgeling Assassin was Chaos corruption. The hunting of Chaos Champions brought them close to the Ruinous powers, and without proper mind aegis, even the most stewart could fall. Unable to be affected, he was naturally resilient, and the Lord thought that he would do without the double-redundant practical elements of resisting the Archenemy. Subtract the courses on civil training, and two years and change could be removed from the novitiate curriculum.

"You should meet my Uncle. His semblance is bad luck." Yang laughed, and then became serious. Lilac eyes glared a hole on his face. "Is that why you… I mean, if you don't mind if I ask…?"

"Ask about what?"

"You know…"

She brushed a hand against her cheek. The Vindicare felt confusion at the gesture. His face? What was wrong with his face? He wasn't as attractive as the surgically altered opera singers, but he had two eyes, one nose, and a jaw, and that was more than could be said about most Imperial denizens, Mechanicus and prosthetics non standing. Lightyears more than the Xenos or mutants in any case.

"I am aware that I have a face. Would you like to examine it?"

Statement of truce. Yang flushed, and then started laughing.

"You know, from anyone else, I would think you were flirting."

"Why not me?"

"Well, you're not exactly my type, and I'm sure I'm not yours. Unless I've been reading you completely wrong. I'm not right? Cause if I am, sorry."

A symptom of alcohol intoxication was openness. That would've stung as much as a hollow point stubber barb round fired from fifty meters, if it wasn't true.

"Yeah."

A pause.

"But what were you asking about?"

"The scars."

"What about my scars?"

"I should've known that you weren't self conscious about them. It's just, usually, most of the huntsman are…"

"Physically perfect?"

Come to speak of it, how was everyone in Beacon so conventionally attractive? It was like attending a school for holo-stars. Some could be attributed to the athletic condition all of the students could be found in, but not all. No one had the typical adolescent skin inflammation, or were in the in-between period where the growth of the limbs outpaced the development of muscles, resulting in an appearance similar to someone that lived on a low gravity world.

"Yeah. Everyone expects a huntsman to look like a supermodel, and to dress in really flashy stuff. You're the only one I know who doesn't care about his appearance."

That… hurt more than he expected.

"Jaune doesn't."

"Sortof proves my point. You and Jaune are the most oblivious people ever. He didn't even know who Pyrrha was, until she was on his team. Can you imagine?"

The Vindicare knew Pyrrha was famous, but for the life of him, could not recall what for. He didn't want to start an argument with Yang, but there was nothing else to do. Everyone else was either missing in action or no longer conscious. Ruby had fallen asleep in Yang's lap.

"Weiss has a scar."

"Weiss has a little neat line that runs down her left eye. Half of your face looks like it was chewed off, and then reattached."

The Vindicare looked at Yang until she shrunk down.

"Sorry. And you know back in Atlas, people kept saying she was marred, less beautiful because of it."

"People are idiots."

"Yeah." Yang sighed.

"If you're still curious, this," He traced a hand over the crevasses on his face. "Was before I got an aura. Someone came at me with a knife."

"Jeez."

Everything he had endured was pre-aura. If what he had learned was true, everything he would continue to do would be pre-aura.

"You must have to answer a lot of questions about it."

Not really. There were a few wayward glances, but nothing more.

"You get used to it."

"I think it makes you look badass." Yang said with a smile, placing Ruby onto her overhead bed.

"Though I got to apologize."

"What for?"

"Well, first for thinking you were like Cardin. And you should've told me about your semblance, cause for the first few days I did hate your guts for no reason. It got better, but I should've been able to tell it wasn't me."

"Happens to the best of us."

"What I'm trying to say is, you're half alright Grey."

"Thank you?"

Yang continued without hearing.

"JNPR and you. You'll all friends. If you ever need anything, just ask us, alright? JNPR and RWBY will be more than happy to help."

Ruby mumbled in her sleep.

"Thank you."

The Vindicare said, smiling.

"And as friends, I am legally obligated to tell you that you'll still weird as all hell."

She yawned.

"I'm done with the friend rant. Head hurts like hell, and I'm exhausted. It was fun. Goodnight."

Like a shell, she collapsed onto her bed. It gave out with a big groan. The Vindicare brushed cards and crumbs off himself as he stood up. It was a "sleep-over" but no one would care that he returned to his own dorm. It was only a few rooms over.

The hallway outside was dimmed, and as he walked, he listened to his own footsteps.

His dorm door opened with a flash of his scroll. As far as he could tell, the room was as he left it, and still empty. The digi-timepiece blinked out a red 5:00AM. The last of the ethanol evacuated his system as he used the bathroom. Outside the cracked moon had already set, replaced with the brightening dark, but not colour scaled red of dawn.

Time enough to listen to the next messages on the servo-skull.

"Servo-skull."

There was no response. The Vindicare felt a hint of unease, but it didn't translate to action. He had not yet mastered the use of the companion cranium, and there was no indication that it could be roused with a single phrase.

He walked over and pressed on the servo-skull's head. Internal fans whirled.

"**REGISTERED BIOSIGNATURE!"**

As vociferous as always. He asked the question directly.

"Can I name you?"

The skull whirled as it processed, almost vibrating off the desk stand on which it was charging.

"**UNKNOWN QUERY. PLEASE RESTATE THE REQUEST."**

"Negative, this is an interrogative. Are you capable of receiving a verbal command that would raise you to action from dormancy?"

"**YES. THIS MODEL IS CAPABLE OF BEING RAISED BY A SINGLE WORD, OR A SERIES OF WORDS IN A GIVEN ORDER. STANDARD MACHINE RITUALS AND BOOT TIMES APPLY. PRAISE THE OMNISSIAH."**

"What is it?"

"**REGISTERED BIOSIGNATURE FARROW HAS DESIGNATED THIS MODEL 'BASILISK.' WOULD YOU LIKE TO CHANGE IT AT THIS TIME?"**

"Yes."

"**ENUNCIATE THE DESIRED PHRASE. MAXIMUM OF TEN SYLLABLES."**

"Mortis."

A rather common name for a servo-skull. Like Fidelis or Rovius for a Canid.

"**STANDBY."**

Some clicks.

"**VANQUISHER MODEL SEVENTEEN, PRODUCTION NUMBER EIGHTY-FIVE THREE ASTRA, HAS NOW BEEN DESIGNATED 'MORTIS.' BlESS THE OMNISSIAH."**

Now to test it.

"Mortis, play pre-recorded messages from last."

"Inquisitor Farrow, Personal Log Four. It's been sometime since I used this thing. Managed to siphon some power off of the fusion reactor in my wreck. Don't know how much energy is left in this skull, so I'll keep it brief. I've met Vale's King. Seems like a decent fellow, and a capable warrior."

As all kings should be.

"Emperor, this planet makes no sense. Chaos spawn attack each settlement, and are driven back by these warriors they call 'hunters'. The best among them are these mutants with silver eyes. They can drive the abominations back by their mere presence. Shame, that there doesn't seem to be many of them. I've talked with the king about establishing a permanent familial lineage, and he's looking into it."

Silver. A very particular colour. Differentiated from grey by the luster. He had seen them before somewhere...

"But I've also met someone else. There's this person, next to the King. Official title's advisor, but he does a lot more than that. He's from the last king, but that seems impossible. No signs of juvenat, and this man looks biologically fifty. People call him Ozbourne."

Sounded important. Strange that if he advised for two kings, he wasn't in any history books.

"My augurs went ballistic when I went up to him. Nothing like I'd ever seen. Can't scry him either. He was very interested in my psyker abilities. The natives think it's magic. Weird, since they already have 'aura' and 'semblances.' Semantics, more than anything. Closest here, are these 'Maidens'. Four individuals, psyker Echo class. Some pyrokinesis and other abilities. Ozbourne was evasive about their origins or the transfer process. Will have to investigate further, as soon as I find a power source for my devices. I 've been seeing these bright deposits around. After analysis, it looks to be concentrated warp crystals. May be able to use them, if the daemons don't get to me first."

The Vindicare had a sudden urge to vacate the planet, and his bowels while he was at it. It was the equivalent of sitting on a fission bomb. Even as he sat, true daemons would be attracted to the metaphysical beacon that Remnant must've projected into the Warp. How had the planet not fallen yet?!

"The king was interested in my technology, and I've decided to share as much as I can. Emperor knows the natives need it in their fight. I'll keep a close watch on this Ozbourne character. Something about him rattles me the wrong way. Farrow out."

"**END OF MESSAGE."**

Pertinent information. Maidens were special psykers. There was one on Beacon, but he failed to see their importance in the scheme of things. Four could not change the fate of a planet. Four could barely change the tide of a battle.

If there was one on Beacon, it was perplexing how he had not happened upon her yet. The academy was large, but not massive enough to remove all contact. During class hours, it was a matter of probability that he would see everyone's face.

A shadow fell across the window, but the Vindicare saw nothing as he looked out. Nocturnal birds.

"Mortis, play next."

The servo skull remained silent.

"Mortis?"

Something wasn't right. The servo skull had powered down by itself, and it only did that when… The Vindicare stopped breathing, and his hand fell to the knife by his side. He stepped towards the dorm room door.

The Vindicare felt the blast before he saw it, the door of his housing unit breaching inwards and even as his shielded his face instinctively from the flying debris, he recognized the small shape of a concussion grenade entering the cramped interior of his room.

There was little he could do.

Blinding light and intense pressure.

The impact threw him onto Cardin's bed, and whipped the interior of his head around in his skull. His vision left him, and he stumbled backwards as bright after-images stung his eyes. A cloud of fire dust filled his lungs, and he coughed, the sound muted. He was half deaf, temporarily blind, and knocked off balance. Mutely, he heard glass shattering behind him, and the heavy impact of armoured figures rappelling into the room. They shouted orders, and pointed rifles at him. Five in front. Three behind.

It was an unfair fight, a planned breaching that gave him zero preparation and an exit route that must be earned. He felt blindly for the knife, the handle leaden and unfamiliar in his hand. His head throbbed and hammered, the room swaying as he staggered.

The Vindicare wasted not a spare neuron thinking about how he had been revealed. It was a non-issue, something for later. There wasn't any time. He was a trained killer. People needed to be killed. That was the end of it.

The enemy must've expected him to stay put, out of commission for a short period of time. Non-lethal methods and intimidation were their weapons for now. They would be proven wrong.

He launched himself at the first white figure.

They got a shot off, but missed high as the Vindicare attacked him. With a stab, his blade sparked against armour, but was stopped by aura. He kicked them in the knee, and the operator fell from the loss of balance.

A hand on his back. The Vindicare elbowed, catching the second on his face. The helmet's visor snapped back. A familiar design. Atlas.

Not important. More spilled into the confines. No time to handle them.

The crush of bodies made melee difficult. It made range impossible. If they fired their weapons would strike one another, and they hesitated. He didn't.

There was an opening, one he had made among the window breach team. The left side was only one man still entering. The Vindicare tackled them. The Atlesian soldier screamed and flailed as he lost grip with his line. The couple was screaming, scratching as they went off the side of the dormitories.

They did not have far to fall.

The Vindicare's impact was stifled by landing on the Atlesian soldier. They fell head-first, the Vindicare smashing onto their back at a forty-five degree angle. The soldier didn't pursue as the Vindicare stood up. Unconscious, parylyzed, or dead. Unimportant as six guns began raining lead from their vantage point, rounds impacting him on the synskin on his shoulders, and his legs. Painful, but nonlethal. Nonlethal was a non-factor. He shielded his head with his hands, and began running towards the armoury.

His only thought was Exitus. A hostile environment, and without his rifle. He wanted his rifle, needed his rifle. Shouts and crashes behind him. Bruises forming along his back and arms. Stinging bruises.

He needed Exitus.

Bullets impacted the brick around him, and he quickened his pace to faster than an unaugmented could track. The Vindicare was shielded from more rounds as he forced himself through a brick archway and into the combat arena. Right, and he was indoors. The armoury was in front of him.

There was a safety system, a camera around the glass door, and a lock. He knew how to circumvent all forms of security, but this looked complicated. Vanus, not Vindicare. He'd need the spy-mask and tools and time. Previously, the camera would've made him consider his next moves carefully. The fact that he had been attacked proved his guise had already fallen.

The door shattered with one kick, tempered glass giving in to augmentix. Alarms sounded, and he winced as the sound carried across the entire school. The lights were off, but he could see fine.

His locker had not moved. Thumbing in his combination, and glancing behind him, the storage unit seemed to take forever to open. At any moment, he expected Atlesians to surround him, or the locker to spit back an error. Unlocked, he found the beautiful Exitus rifle, and its chest rig. Seventeen rounds present and accounted for.

He hefted the weapon over his shoulder, his new wounds sending fire and protests through his body. Chest rig strap, magazine maglocked, time to mov-

A bullet smashed into his head.

If he was still awake to know it, he would've been amused to know that this was what Ruby felt when he nailed her with the Exitus pistol. The bullet impacted his skull at one hundred meters a second. It was designed to be non-lethal with aura. The Vindicare had none to give.

His body slammed to the ground, and his head cracked against the cold tiles of the armoury. If he was still aware, the Vindicare would've been happy to know that the Exitus was not damaged by the fall, as its momentum was arrested by his body. One of his magazines broke against his chest, spilling its precious cartridges across the floor. Bright gold reflected across the Vindicare's black eyes.

And then it was dark.

︻┻┳══━

"Dust, did you kill him?!"

Private First Class Liam shuffled nervously on his feet. He had been promoted a few months prior, following an incident where he had encountered something in surveillance. Now he was back on field operations to capture the very anomaly he had seen. It was his first contact and Atlas thought that he would have more experience, never mind that he was there for five minutes max.

Major Carnelian walked across the darkness of the armoury. Light enhancing goggles were on, and through the infrared lenses, Liam could see the red of the barrel of the pistol that the Major carried.

If the wrinkles and white hair was any indication, they were far too old for infantry. Overqualified. The old man looked pleased. Happy for the first time that the Private had ever seen him.

"Calm down Private. Only knocked him out. And judging by what they did to those guards, he deserves much worse."

The Major turned B17's body over. The target's head was bleeding lightly, an unhealthy shade of dark crimson, almost black. The round was blossomed against the skull, metal spall tearing flesh around impact. The bleeding was minor and already looked to be ending.

Liam blanched at the sight of blood. Grimm blood was one thing, but human's was something else. Most things he faced had aura.

The Major whistled.

"Weird as all hell. Just like the reports said, no aura." He holstered the pistol and faced Liam. "Call this one in. the General is going to be real pleased."

Liam swallowed, and pressed the button on his radio. Maybe he would get another promotion.

︻┻┳══━

**Author's Note: Dun Dun DUUUN. Vindicare finds himself in some minor trouble. And sorry if you thought I killed him. He's not dead, just really sleepy. Major Carnelian and newly promoted Private First Class Liam make a reappearance! They're not going to be recurring characters. Just wanted to reuse someone familiar. Can't have a no face shadow knock out your main character now can you? Granted, this is only a little bit better. TLDR: Fighting, excitement! Decided on Mortis as a name. Just liked the faux latin of it. Also killed Yang-Vindicare ship before it ever sailed. I didn't go too much in detail about the sleepover since I don't know what you do in one. Sorry bout that if you wanted those scenes.**

**Next chapter: "Some Enhanced Interrogation" and "Politics." Just a heads up if you're not into that. I'm calling the Inquisitor if you are. Slaaneshi and all that. Watching Volume 7 right now. Not going to incorporate anything to prevent spoilers. See you in seven-nine-five ish days!**


	22. Heavy Metal

**Chapter 22**

Yang slid into consciousness with all the grace of a falling Ursa.

The little sunlight that slipped past her dorm's blinds stabbed straight into her eyes, and she grimaced, shutting them again. Her prized blond hair was splayed across her face, difficult to breathe through. Her dry mouth tasted like Qrow's cooking. Next to her, the clock buzzed ten o'clock.

Somehow, she must've been on a cross country marathon, and gone a full circuit of workouts, because if someone put a gun to her head, and told her to get up, Yang would've told them to shut up.

What had happened last night?

She tried to think, but it was hard to do when her nerves had been replaced with cotton and dancing spiders. Hope nothing too crazy happened.

There was a sleepover…

Drinks! She had brought drinks. Maybe a little bit of liquid courage would get Grey to loosen up a little, and for Pyrrha to finally confess to Jaune. Speaking of which, she looked over, and found Pyrrha and Jaune snuggling together on the floor. Mission complete! One point for Team Yang.

She tried to smile, but her face hurt. As for Grey, she tried to remember more details, but failed. It was hard to think with her head not cooperating. Why did people do this to themselves? Why did Qrow do this to himself? She swore she would never drink again.

Well…

The occasional strawberry sunrise couldn't hurt…

A little more sleep, and she would feel right as rain. Beacon was still on break, so Yang burrowed her head into her pillow. The pounding was getting worse, like if Nora was smashing on her head with Maginhild.

It was like she could actually hear it. As her head cleared, she realized that it was real. Someone was knocking on the door, and quite frantically too.

"Yaaaang!" Ruby cried out. "Answer the door!"

Groggily, Yang pushed off her warm and inviting blanket, sleep crusted eyes looking across the room for someone else to give the task too. Weiss was sleeping through the racket. Through the half-open closet, Yang could see Blake's form curled up in a ball of the teams clothing.

Weak tolerances. Hah!

Yang stumbled to her feet, her bed creaking underneath her. As if it could hear her, the knocking intensified, increasing in strength and volume.

"Coming! Gods, calm down."

What could possibly be that urgent? If it was Nora asking if the team was awake, Yang was going to give her a piece of her mind. It took her far too long to make it to the door, the hammering reaching a crescendo that was awakening everyone in the room.

"What do you wa-"

The words died in her mouth as instead of five foot bubbly Nora, Yang found a six foot pissed off Ms. Goodwitch.

"Ms. Goodwitch!"

The rumour had to be true. Goodwitch had to have some sort of sixth sense detecting trouble, a dual semblance of some sort. It had to be. Two bottles of whiskey were on the ground, in plain view.

"Ms. Xiao Long. I hope that I've not awaken you?"

"Nope, not at all. What can I do for you?"

"We had a… situation last night. We're still investigating, but as one of the only teams still on campus, I'd like to ask you if you saw or heard anything."

Glynda tried to look past her, into the room. Weiss was groaning, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Blake stirred, deep in her artificial den. Even Pyrrha and Jaune, who up to this point were little better than corpses, attempted to rise. In light of Beacon's strict curfew policy between teams, Yang stepped into Ms. Goodwitch's field of vision.

"What sort of situation?" Yang asked, her mouth dry.

"It's easier if I just show you."

The deputy moved aside, allowing Yang to step into the hallway. Her stomach dropped. As she took in the rubble of a door that looked like it had been exploded, two thoughts ran through her mind.

What had happened last night?

And no more drinking…

︻┻┳══━

_Surprising no one, the Guardsman was the first to die. Furia was next. _

_The novitiates had been running for eighteen hours straight, with only two liters of water between them. If they survived, the next day, it would be only one. _

_Every week, the cruel minds of the black clothed agents of the Officio took something away. The first few days, it was food. Hardtack and corpse starch went from three servings a day, to two, and then to one every two days. The team hunted bilge rats and void-flies to supplement their meager provisions. _

_But as the other teams found out about their strategy, entire ship sections were cleaned out, stringy algae scraped off walls and eaten, along with the half putrid, half poisonous crustaceans that skittered around in the hold. They were cracked open and eaten, sometimes roasted, sometimes raw. _

_At first, it seemed that those vermin tides were endless. But by the end of the first week, the ship was empty, completely and impossibly clean. The boy's fat stores withered as his face gained new angles, sharp and biting. Furia's eyes seemed too large for the atrophied flesh on her skull. The Scribe, or "Infocyte" as Furia was apt to call him, was the least affected, not having much muscle to maintain, and a slower metabolism than the rest of them. _

_Day began at 0400 sharp, having retired at 0100. Despite the exhaustion, sleep was slow to come. Their bodies cried for food. Even sleep offered no respite. The Halles Vitali being in the warp, each novitiate were attacked by all manners of nightmare. Many woke up screaming and drenched in sweat. He alone, did not suffer these night terrors. It was the boy's one small mercy amongst the hellscape._

_They dragged themselves out of bed, and shredded themselves on obstacle courses with lethal drops, jagged edges, and impossible angles. With the day, the boy forced himself to continue, dragging resolve out of himself that he didn't know he had. He forced his wounds closed with improvised sutures, stapled flesh back together, and pushed forwards with intense concentration. One mistake meant death. The guardsman fell during a climbing exercise, and impaled himself on a man-sized stake. The others continued on, even as he refused to die, squealing and screaming in agony._

_Somewhere, somehow, a calloused almost-machine came out of the boy's over-taxed psyche. It wasn't him, the boy thought. It was a part of him, and looked like him, but it wasn't him. He named it the Novitiate. The Novitiate didn't care, didn't overthink. If the Novitiate could do it, the Novitiate could do it. With willpower alone, the boy dragged out his new forged personality each morning, fuel to keep him alive. The Deathworlder recognized his change, and one day, smiled and said._

__"_You, me, brothers now."_

_The pair became walking skeletons, unspeaking unless necessary, enduring open sores and injuries that refused to heal under the strain. Others failed during drills, collapsing onto the floor like a cut marionette. Others went to sleep, and never woke up, hearts stopping throughout the night. They continued. _

_On the dawn of the fourteenth day without food, Furia died because of something she ate. Or rather, something she didn't eat. Spittle and foam flying from her mouth, she convulsed and died on the floor of the parade grounds. She was twenty kilograms lighter than when she boarded. Even through his burning grit, the Novitiate recognized death in coming. Willpower could only give the body so much. _

_The day, the hour, he thought his body was going to fail, food was restored. The new rations were a disgusting gel-texture, unflavoured save for the bitter chalk of vitamins and electrolytes. The Novitiate consumed it all. _

_But like clockwork, at the start of the third week, the aqua taps tapered off, and then ended. It was a cruel joke, that the moment they had no want of food, they could no longer eat it. Their throats were parched, and even as they nibbled on their biscuits, it refused to go down, made their thirst worst. _

_New exercises were introduced, lethal competitions against one another, unarmed melee in the dark, team firefights in the ship's hold. The team, if it could be called that, more individuals stuck together by chance and challenge, were down two, but then, so were most other teams. Las raced. Bones broke against metal. There was no mercy amongst the stars, and ten thousand novitiates became one thousand. _

_Throughout it all the grim face of the Assassin that was master of the ship, watched without empathy, without emotion. _

_The Novitiate took a round to the leg. _

_It was a clean wound, no damage to the tendons or bones, which would've been lethal. Nothing to worry about, give it a few days in a Medicae, and if you didn't mind throbbing discomfort, it would be good as new. The Deathworlder stitched it up for him, and applied a foul smelling salve of unknown origin. _

"_For the rot," the deathworlder said. _

_The Scribe gave it a 75% chance of full recovery, albeit with a superficial scar, if he rested. They didn't. _

_And then it was the next day. In pain, hunger, and thirst, the Novitiate ran, each step sending bile into his mouth, as his bad leg screamed. One more step, he said, took it, agony starting anew. One more step, he said, took it. _

_One more step…_

︻┻┳══━

The Vindicare snapped into awareness, and immediately took in his surroundings.

There was no hesitancy, no brief moment of non-sequitur where he was. He knew he was captured, and in an unknown location.

He was in an unmarked room, approximately ten meters by ten meters. He tried to scratch his itch on his forehead, and found his hands chained to the ground, a metal gauntlet attached to a chain as wide as his legs, which were in turn bound by chains as thick as his torso. Flexing experimentally showed that there was no possibility of breaking it. Must've been for hunters.

His synskin had been stripped away, revealing healed injuries and some of the surgeries that had enhanced him past human limits. There was a sore spot on the arm, where they had injected or withdrawn something from him. The Vindicare hoped that they had taken care in removing the suit, and didn't just shred it off him.

On more pressing matters, besides a pair of boxers covering his groin, he was naked. In the corner of his vision, he saw wires connecting to the sides of his head and neck via a number of pads. He felt a few, on his back, a few on his arm, and more worryingly, one snaking into his crotch. Neuralyzers. Used to extract information if it flowed one way.

"Subject B17 is conscious."

A voice through an intercom system that the Vindicare could not see. He supposed he was B17. One of the walls became translucent, and the Vindicare became aware of five people watching him. He understood why. Psychologically, he was vulnerable. No one wanted to appear weak. Two men walked in, one with a clipboard, another with a rifle. Clipboard spoke.

"Subject, state your name."

"Grey Titus."

Molten-hot lighting jolted him to attention as his nerves fried from the signal sent by the neuralyzer. Like he expected, the worst was the one on his penis. Damage there was accompanied by nausea. The Vindicare vomited, the sick covering himself. Excruciatingly painful, but not anything he hadn't felt before.

He spat, mouth filled with the stinging acid of regurgitation.

"Subject state your name."

"Grey Ti-"

Another wave of agony. It was worse the second time round. They must've upped the voltage. He retched, but his stomach was empty. What was the ritual for torture again as given by the Regimental Standard? In case of capture by enemy forces, turn your weapon onto yourself and then…

A little late for that.

The only information he could give were his true name, serial number, and battalion. He didn't have one, and the other two would've been useless even if he gave it.

The Vindicare decided not to, even if it would've eased the torture for some time. It was the convention of the thing. What sort of an Assassin would he be, if he couldn't handle a little bit of torture?

"Subject state your name."

"Grey-"

Shock. Pain. At the bare minimum, he would get them to get a specialist interrogator. It was insulting that they thought this _machine _would get him to talk.

Question. Shock. Pain. It was a wonder what someone could do with a pair of pliers. Would be out of character for Atlas. Their methods were so sanitary. He guessed that the shocks he was receiving would not leave any permanent damage save a few cursory burns and muscle cramps.

Question. Shock. Pain. He gasped. That one was strong enough to break through his sympathetic circuit breakers in his nerves. His muscles clamped, tight squeezing his bones. There were two more gates to bypass before the current stopped his primary heart. If that happened, he had the more mechanical secondary to rely upon.

Escape. How would he escape? His hands were attached behind him, and for the moment, with unbreakable bonds. So were his feet. What was breakable? He could tear his hands and feet off, but call the Vindicare old fashioned, but he preferred his flesh and blood over whatever bionics Remnant had.

Shock. Pain.

It would also accomplish nothing. If he did brute amputate himself, the soldier would put him down. Trained as he was, the Vindicare could not beat him with blood nubs. Though the ends would be sharp…

And then what?

Would he crawl his way to freedom? No, escape was not possible at the current moment. The Vindicare would endure what happened to him, and figure out things from there. He would be transferred at some point, and then he would strike. Figure out where his equipment was, as well.

Shock.

His vision blurred this time around, afterimages dancing on his retina. The Vindicare tasted electricity in his mouth, a sour and tingly sensation. He smelled burnt toast, which was either a sign of an embolism in his brain, or his nose hair being set alight.

Endure…

︻┻┳══━

"Can't you up the voltage?" Ironwood said, watching his monitor. He was on call with Doctor Halsey, one of Atlas's specialists secretly stationed in Vale. Their location was secret, and completely against any accords signed after the Great War. The feed and call were encrypted and decrypted in real time, causing the footage to be grainy and filled with packet loss.

Through it, the B17's figure lay still, his head bowed and facing the ground. Every ten seconds, he twitched and convulsed.

"Sir, we're already at twice that of levels that would be lethal to a huntsman. If we increase the voltage, the subject will die."

"How do his vitals look?"

"Unstable. His heart rate and blood pressure are jumping around."

Ironwood grimaced. He had never been a fan of torture as a means, but understood its merits in extracting information. It was to be reserved against someone especially evil, like B17. Ozpin had been worried about the next Vytal Festival. Enhanced interrogation had to be done. Especially against someone who was Salem's agent. This one was proving to be resilient, and more likely to die than reveal his secrets.

Whatever happened, something would be revealed.

"Have you begun testing?"

"Yes sir! We've done the X-Rays, MRI, and drawn blood."

"And?"

"Sir, permission to speak frankly?"

Ironwood's curiosity was piqued.

"Permission granted."

"These results are off the charts! Complete endoskeletal restructuring, cybernetic enhancements to the central nervous system, and sir, you'll love this one. He… It's got extra organs! Some of them are just partitioned or miniature versions of one's we know, but… There's these ones that we've never seen before. Completely unprecedented! Most of his bits are changed as well. Muscle architecture is altered, not to mention the mess that is his endocrine, circulatory, and immune system. There's things swimming around in his blood that we don't even know how to begin classifying."

There was a manic edge in the Doctor's voice, the ecstasy of scientific discovery. Ironwood on the other hand felt a wave of cold wash through him. Genetic therapy by the sounds of it, and years if not decades above Atlas's own.

"Any combat applications?" Ironwood asked, even though he had experience first-hand.

"For starters, you can wave goodbye to any sort of infection. Oh it's beautiful. Normal immune systems fight against infection. B17 doesn't need to, since it's blood is highly toxic. More minute veins, capillaries means little or no lactic acid buildup. As for direct combat, these nerves indicate reactions equal to, or exceeding that of a fully trained huntsman. Nerve clusters near the heart and lungs that normal people don't have. There's one in the brain, near the amygdala. We think, and you have to realize that this is highly theoretical, these let him control his respiration and metabolism."

"How does he fare against a huntsman?"

"Well, you've got your standard non-aura issues. Weakness to crushing attacks, muscles can be damaged if overused, it definitely heals slower and damage will make it less combat effective. It's muscles are weaker than an average huntsman's aura amplification, but by a margin. More glycolytic muscles, faster reaction times, and I assume it's trained to use them. It's got the edge on the huntsman, though on a few pieces. Immunity to conventional poisons, resistance to most diseases, and by default, can attack without aura."

"Let me ask you another question doctor. Where do you think he would have received these enhancements?"

"Anybody with half a brain could tell you that they're artificial. These proteins- We think that most of these extra organs didn't even originally belong to B17. They were implanted at some point. And some of these… Augmentations are completely synthetic, and constructed to the molecular level. For someone to be able to this… Sir, I don't know. These nerve's alone would need years of research for the theoreticals. And sir, you are aware that B17- B17 doesn't have a soul. That's theoretically impossible, much less practically reproducible."

It was unthinkable that someone on Remnant had developed the ability to grow bioengineered organs that could adhere to a person, as well as, no, better than natural organs. It was even more unthinkable that this individual had managed to have no information leakage to the outside. But it was impossible, impossible to comprehend the sheer depravity that would lead someone to create a human without a soul.

An idea danced around Ironwood's head, and it just about to jump into the light when Ironwood's scroll rang. He sighed and straightened out his tie as he read the name.

"Doctor Halsey, keep monitoring him, and prepare for immediate extraction to Atlas. I have to take a call."

"Sir, yes sir!"

Ironwood ended the line, shut off the feed on his monitor, and cleaned up the papers on his desk. Prepared, he hit the green call button. Ozpin's face was neutral, completely neutral.

"I trust that I do not need to explain the nature of this call."

Ironwood knew that Ozpin was furious.

"Did you want to discuss my preparations for the Vytal festival?"

"James."

"Ozpin."

An awkward pause.

"Don't make me get Glynda on this line."

"I don't believe either of us would survive that." Ironwood said, with a wince. "I fail to see what I did wrong. I did what was required to secure the safety of the relics and the maiden, and I did it without alerting the general populace."

"And for that I congratulate you. However, I will remind you that you organized an Atlesian military strike force, on Valean soil no less, and arrested a student from Beacon, a huntsman academy, which I must remind you again, are independent entities."

Ironwood coughed.

"It was necessary, as I saw that you were not taking action."

"Really now, James?" Ozpin's eyes narrowed. "At any point, did you consider that I was not taking action, because I chose not to?"

Ozpin and his "plans." Some of them grew to fruition, Ironwood had to give it that, but more often than not, they were slow to mature, and by the time their benefits could be reaped, it was too little, too late.

"There is a time for thought, and time for action. 'Grey' was compromising Beacon's safety, and I took it upon myself to secure it's safety."

"Grey may have been compromising Beacon's safety. There has yet to be any direct evidence."

"For God's sake, Ozpin, he broke into my office, and then forged his way into Beacon!"

Ironwood continued on as Ozpin opened his mouth.

"I'm sure that you've had more incidents that I am unaware of. And then there was the matter at the docks-"

"We don't know if he was involved in that."

"A huntsman level opponent, multiple deaths, and one subject that happened to be in the area at the time. Connect the dots. And Ozpin, are you aware that the, the… thing, doesn't have a soul?"

Ozpin remained silent. Ironwood reached a crescendo. The idea from earlier fully formed.

"He's some sort of humanoid infiltration Grimm. There's no other explanation. Salem is the only one capable of creating something like that. We're out of the game, old friend. She's got the edge on us, if she can make these things, and we need to retaliate, now. Grimm knows how many of those are out there."

Ozpin's eyes opened momentarily, before resuming the calm facade he always wore.

"A theory, and nothing else." Ozpin said. "He could be a mistake of nature, a cosmic one in a billion. Stranger things have happened in this world."

The immortal headmaster stared Ironwood in the eyes.

"I know you have him detained in one of your secret Atlesian cells." He continued, as Ironwood tried to protest. "Don't bother denying. I know of those. I trust that there will be a trial, on Valean soil?" Ozpin looked out the window of his tower, at the grounds of Beacon.

"This is an Atlesian matter now. He will be tried in Atlas."

"I expected nothing less of you." Ozpin shook his head. "At the bare minimum, you have not mistreated him because of your theory?"

No response.

"James?"

"I did what was required."

Ozpin slammed his hands onto his desk, startling the general. A cup of hot chocolate spilled across the papers.

"Good god, what have you done?"

"Nothing too extreme. B17 is still alive. I am attempting to extract information from him, and have prepared for him to return to Atlas for further study."

"Allow me to see him."

"No. Whoever he is, whatever it is, I will find out. Your presence will only complicate matters. You've always been too soft to do what was required."

"No."

Ozpin withered, and for a second, Ironwood thought the man would collapse.

"You are absolutely sure that he does not have a soul?"

"Yes."

"His body… Did he have digentic attributes? Anatomic alterations? His sword has a skull on it. I always suspected, but… He wouldn't let me get close enough."

"How did you know about-"

"Human height, not an Astartes. Definitely not a Custodes. That leaves the… Above his thigh, does he have a number and letters tattooed?"

"Why does this matter?"

"Does he have a tattoo or not?" Ozpin roared. Ironwood started at the ferocity, and fire in his eyes. He had never seen the man come anywhere close. The general recalled the report, identifying physical attributes. Mountains of scars, but yes, there was a tattoo above the thigh. V-825-KL if he wasn't mistaken.

"Yes."

Ozpin clenched his teeth, so hard, that Ironwood could hear them grind.

"They're back."

"Who's back? What's back?"

"The Imperium of Man is back. And they've brought an Assassin."

"Whoever this, 'Empire of Mankind' is, there is hardly any reason for concern. My soldiers have B17 well contained."

Ozpin's eyes glazed over.

"No Ironwood. Your soldiers are dead."

︻┻┳══━

The Vindicare awoke in another cell.

He must've fallen unconscious at some point previous during the interrogation. This time, there were no chains on his hands or feet. What there was, was a crushing weight on his chest and appendages, one that made it difficult to move. He pushed himself to a sitting position with great difficulty. It was as if his flesh had been replaced with lead, and his blood, with syrup.

The Vindicare's breath came in laboured chunks, impossibly heavy to expel. Sweat poured from his revealed body. Veins stuck out haphazardly, every inch of his enhanced physiology keeping him alive. He estimated he had two more hours to go before his organs failed under the strain.

There was a rumble beneath him, and the Vindicare guessed that he was on a Bullhead, or another means of transport.

"It's awake."

The Vindicare looked up, flexing his neck muscles so hard he thought he would pass out. Blood popped in his eyes.

There were two Atlesia soldiers looking at him through an energy shield. His equipment sat there, tantalizingly out of grasp. The Exitus rifle, the pistol, the synskin suit, which he was relieved to see, was in one piece. There was one more item, of far more import. They were teasing him, cruel smiles on their faces. He didn't blame them. It was the one he had jumped on the night prior.

If he could get them to give him the last thing…

"How's the grav-pads treating you? Twenty times Remnant's gravity."

Simulated gravitational pads. Beacon had a few for training purposes, but the ones under him were operating well above the safe limits. The Vindicare could barely breathe, much less fight. Trapped, and without any physical bindings.

"_My ring._" He managed to wheeze out.

"Hell, it speaks. What was that?"

"_My ring._"

"I think it wants its ring." One of the Atlesians grabbed the smiling ring. It was the shining sterling silver of new ceramite, inlaid in pure golden auramite. A skull was engraved into the gold, the eyes red, almost glowing.

"No shit, Sherlock. Question is, do we give it to him?"

The Atlesian he had landed on.

"What's he gonna do, get out a miniature lockpick set? Saw his way out?"

Nothing so crude.

"_Please._"

"Guys, just give it to him."

Another person walked in from out of the Vindicare's limited field of vision. Liam by the looks of the name tag.

"Sure thing, private."

Something slammed into his back, like a brick of solid gold. It was as valuable as such. He fell, and cracked his skull against the metal floor of his cell.

"Enjoy your ring, asshole."

They walked off, laughing. Liam was the last to leave, and gave a sad look to the Vindicare. He waited until the private was gone to begin his escape. He didn't react on an emotional level just yet. There was a number of things that could go wrong. The ring may have been unable to work in extreme gravity. The identification rituals may have run awry with non-use. His vision blurred around the edges. The Vindicare might black out midway, a situation increasingly more likely with every second.

The Vindicare maneuvered the ring off his body with a clunk. He forced it onto his middle finger, heavy as the weights he used to train. The bone bent, unhealthily so. After an unbearable eternity, he felt the slightest vibration, a signal that his biometrics had been accepted.

And then the Vindicare smiled.

︻┻┳══━

**Author's note: Things moving fast. **


	23. Freefall: Part One

**Chapter 23**

They almost didn't hear the call. It was on the third chirp of the ringtone, that Lance Corporal Azure, among a burst of laughter and a shake of the head, noticed the ringing onboard scroll. The Caller ID was encrypted, but the fact that they could reach the hi-tech cloaked plane at all showed a level of clearance.

"Unknown, this is Nevermore Actual, wait one." Azure said, pressing the earpiece tight in an attempt to drown out the surrounding noise. The attempt was rendered futile by the uproarious laughter of his squadmates.

They were relaxing from the completed mission, lively from the action. The objective had been captured, and the lack of casualties and serious injuries kept the mood light. Each was recounting their own version of the event. Nine of them howled at something Major Carnelian said. Azure waved his hands frantically, and they quieted down a fraction. "Identify yourself please, over."

…

"Sir!" Azure saluted on reflex. It wasn't every day that General Ironwood himself gave a call. His squadmates noticed his sudden tension, and looked at him worriedly. He tried to pantomime a star with his free hand.

"Package is secure, and on transit to Site Twenty-Three, over."

…

"Sir?"

…

Azure unclipped his rifle from where it was beside him, and walked back to the shielded gravitational containment field where B17 was. Here the only sound was the rumble of the plane and the crackle of the shielding. As before, the criminal was confined to the ground by the weight of his own skin, each breath difficult and pained. The smell of sweat wafted through the air circulation.

"Sir, I am confident that the package is still secure, over."

…

As Azure watched, the criminal fiddled with a ring, a substantial weight in the increased gravitational force. They smiled ghoulishly, and in the blue distortion of the shielding, didn't look quite sane.

"Sir, the package is playing with a ring, over."

…

"Sir? I am confident that he is still secure…"

B17 just kept smiling.

︻┻┳══━

A plasma weapon was the single most destructive hand-held weapon the Imperium fielded, bar nothing.

Each plasma gun of Imperial design superheated hydrogen fuel to the critical temperatures of the fourth state of matter. Within the weapon, this lethal energy was contained within hyper-pressurized electro-containment fields. When fired, the containment scriptures opened, and the plasma ejected with the help of vapour pressure and the coils of a linear magnetic accelerator.

The effects were devastating.

A single bolt of plasma could vaporize a Tyranid Bio-Titan upon impact with an Emperor almighty explosion and a crater being the indication that the creature ever existed. Many an Astartes and Mechanicus owed their life to the miniature star of a hand-held plasma pistol, or the timely intervention of a mounted Plasma Destroyer on a Leman Russ Executioner.

Alas, such a mighty weapon was not without faults. Even during the highest tempests of the Great Crusade, when mankind's valour burned bright, plasma weapons were expensive to produce. Each weapon needed meticulous care, the machine spirit inside wild and difficult to appease. Should the fields fail, the weapon, the shooter, and everything within arms reach would be engulfed in a wave of ravaging energy. It was said that during the Heresy, a plasma weapon had a fifteen percent chance of failing with each shot.

That statement was incorrect, and based on the faulty observations of guardsman that did not understand the technology behind their weapons. In reality, with every shot, the weapon's barrel and shroud heated, and if six shots were fired in rapid conjunction, the weapon's temperature would tip to unsafe levels. The machine spirit would then perform an emergency heat dump, which, unfortunately to anyone not encased in ceramite, consisted of a cloud of superheated steam that broiled flesh. Following the heresy, this issue was solved by lowering the recharge rate of the weapon, and a safety mechanism that prevented the weapon from firing if it was overheated.

Like any adaption made in the name of safety, it could be overridden, at the user's risk. There were more issues with the revered plasma weapon.

In the matter of reloading, the flasks used to feed the weapon were finicky, and unwieldy. The rituals were long and difficult to remember. Impossible to exchange during the heat of battle.

The Vindicare did not have a plasma weapon. He chose to forgo the sheer destructive capabilities of plasma, not wishing to lose a limb on the whim of a weapon.

He had a melta.

Meltas possessed less range than a plasma gun, but then again, his ring was never designed to be used at range. A gift to him upon graduation by his Lord, it was a digital weapon. Beyond the capabilities of Imperial production, a ring could only be forged by the poorly understood Jokaero species, ape-like technosavants capable of technological wonders. A ring was worth a planetary governor's ransom, and there it was, upon his finger. It went to show the reach of the Officio Assassinorum.

While some may scoff at the Xenos origin of the weapon, none would deny its efficacy. The man-slayer on his finger was only 20% as effective as an Inferno pistol, the second smallest melta weapon. It had one shot, and needed to be reloaded with an external source of chemical fuel that the Vindicare supplied with a syringe. His Lord Assassin had told him it could be used and recharged three times.

He had used it once in a heated melee against a Howling Banshee. She had split his Exitus rifle in half, and ripped through his spy-mask with contemptible ease. The Digi-Weapon saved his life, a single shot turning her Bone-Wraith armour into molten slag.

At close range, a melta could punch through tank armour. The metal on the side where the shielding projected was twenty millimeters thick. It had to light, equipped on something airborne. Atlas trusted the gravitational fields to keep huntsman from being able to break through it.

There were an Atlesian soldier that had arrived some time prior, watching him, a vox in his hand, and a rifle in the other. Lance Corporal Azure by the insignia and nametag. The Vindicare didn't pay him any attention. There was no way that they would know what he was planning. With burdensome arms, the Vindicare hefted his ring hand, the eyes of the skull facing the door. His off hand braced it by the wrist.

He turned his face away and thumbed the miniscule trigger.

The distinctive hiss of a priming melta filled the air, the traces of liquid sweat between the Vindicare and the panel boiling away.

"What the fu-" the Lance tried to get out.

And then there was the blast.

The small diameter of metal directly in front of the ring was vaporized instantly. The plasmonic gases expanded outwards, ripping through the still liquefying metals. The resulting explosion? Satisfyingly loud.

His ears popped, as smoke filled his cell. Gravity returned to tolerable levels as shields flickered off. Amateur that the Atlesian engineers had failed to account for a man sized hole in their hardware. Blood oozed from already sealing wounds on his chest; a few shrapnel fragments had hit him. Even prepared, his eyes closed, and face turned away, the Vindicare's vision was seared, half-blinded by the melta.

The Vindicare took in his environment in a blur. He was in the back of a large airship, facing the cockpit. It was surprisingly clean and roomy, a few militaristic vehicles strapped down in the hold. There was even a refreshment sector a ways away. His weapons were close by, mag-locked on a wall.

The Atlesian Lance Corporal grimaced and wasted precious centiseconds covering his eyes.

"Shit, he's loose, B17 is loose!" they screamed, dropping their vox.

The Atlesian soldier fought to bring his weapon into action without sight. The Vindicare fought dancing afterimages as he slammed into them. Wearing a pair of boxers, and armed only with his wits, the Vindicare grabbed with one hand at a head topped with red hair, and then slammed it against the side of a nearby APC.

With the other, he grabbed the Exitus pistol from the wall. There were orders being screamed from the other side of the plane, and the Vindicare sighted in the nearest target, a female officer with a mop of blonde hair.

Click.

The Vindicare cursed himself for his stupid presumption. Nobody would store the loaded weapon of a wanted criminal when said wanted criminal was still in said plane. The ammunition must've been locked up somewhere. He dived behind the APC, non-commissioned officer in hand as gunfire erupted across the hold. The fragmentation of one round cut open his hand, and he found his feet being torn up the rough surface.

The Lance Corporal scratched at his wrist, and the Vindicare slammed the grip of the Exitus pistol onto his head, and then threw him into the armoured carrier. The crunch of bone told him that he had broken the now Terminal Lance's neck. He stripped the rifle out of their hands, mag-locking his own Exitus pistol back to where it was. He would don it, and the true Rifle later. His knife went in his mouth.

The Vindicare inspected his new weapon. It was a bulky energy rifle, conventionally fed. LED ammo counter on the side. Good enough for now. He rolled onto his shoulder, and fired a long burst onto the first target. Sergeant. Their visor snapped back, and the man crumpled onto the wall. The metal skin of the aircraft began to howl, air depressurizing into the thin atmosphere behind him.

"Take him down!"

Three were beginning to flank him. If they succeeded, they would have a full field of fire on him. He dashed between limited cover points, lead tearing up the air where he was. Firing in uncontrolled fully automatic to suppress, he managed to pick off one. The aura of an enlisted could take the first shot, but not the fifth or the sixth. The lasgun beeped empty, just as the Vindicare intercepted a reloading soldier. They were old, and their insignia read major.

He slammed the butt of the rifle onto the senior operator's helmet, so hard that the robust plastic and metal flexed under the impact. The Vindicare dropped the empty weapon. Putting the man into a choke hold, he pulled their gun one-handed over the unconscious man's shoulder.

His teammates stopped firing, not wanting to hit him. Sitting poultry. The Vindicare shot one in the head multiple times, and put a few in the blonde officer from before. Tagged, but not down. Six Atlesians ducked behind cover. The major awoke, and began to flail, attempting to disengage. The Vindicare pressed the still red-hot ring onto their cheek, and they shrieked.

The Vindicare repositioned himself so that he could use the larger muscles in his leg.

With considerable effort, despite augmentics, on his part, he put his entire weight into the man's neck. Bone crunched, weakened from age, and the earlier rifle whipping. A wet crack.

It wasn't instantly lethal, but the man was now a quadriplegic, and a more compliant shield.

Two Atlesians came at him from the side with extended swords. Without sighting, he mag-dumped into one, and then threw the paralyzed major onto the other, simultaneously drawing their pistol and firing. The two went down in a mess of limbs. He spat his own knife onto his hand.

A round glanced his collarbone, throwing him off balance. Blood rolled down his chest, warm and sticky. He rolled to the side, spotted the shooter, blondie, and dashed towards them, dodging the trajectory of a few more rounds. He fired six times, but did not account for the fact that their kine-shielding was already minuscule.

He forgot the cardinal rule. Always know who you were shooting at, and what was behind it.

One round broke what little aura she had left. Two turned her skull into fragments, its trajectory turned awry. The bullet sparked against the surface of an APC. Three, four, five, and six continued on through the red mist, past the blazing firefight, through the paper thin metal of the bulkhead, and into the cockpit.

One, two, three rounds collided through with the pilot's raised aura. The fourth broke through the shielding, and with a squish, embedded themselves into the pilot's brain stem. As instant a death as was possible. The body jerked backwards, muscles tightening in death on the controls.

There was no co-pilot.

A horizontal incline became forty five degrees at the drop of a coin. The Vindicare felt himself slipping, and he fell forward onto his knee, his teeth clacking together Above him the APC creaked precariously, straining plastic straps alone keeping the carrier from crushing him. A pallet struck his head, and the Vindicare was momentarily thrown off the slide he had adopted. He would've landed on his feet, but a headless body threw off his landing, and he fell onto his back instead.

Pain exploded on his right side. The Vindicare found it impossible to breathe, blood mixing with the spittle in his mouth.

Looking down, he found himself impaled on a jagged sliver of metal, a tapered end entering his right lung from the back, and a darkened tip protruding in front. Blood and air sprayed out of him, like some demented human balloon.

He closed off that lung, heaved for air, and found his adjusted breath was ragged and heavy. Something had punctured his foot, his footsteps sticky and wet. The Vindicare felt dizzy, a sign of a lack of oxygen, and more importantly, blood. Heavy impacts around him told him that the Atlesians had fared little better.

The Vindicare gave them no time to recover from their extemporaneous acrobatics session. He swung at one of them, catching them right across the face as they were getting up. A testimony to training, that they fell on one hand, and tried to recover. It was a perpendicular arc to the top of their head that dropped them. Not much of a choice. If they ever dreamed, ever had hobbies and habits, they were half the man they used to be. The strike bisected their head in two.

The other three came in on him as one.

He sidestepped the closest, a large hulking beast on the lower size range of an Astartes. His eyes were full of determinately unprofessional bloodlust. The Vindicare didn't blame him. The Assassin had just murdered half his company. He kicked at the second, a wiry youth that looked terrified, but with enough presence of mind to continue fighting. Private First Class. The attack snapped the Private's knee back the wrong way, and they collapsed, crying and vomiting onto the floor.

The third was already attacking and the Vindicare smacked aside a sword with his hand, taking the impact and diverting it by the flat of his own blade. He jabbed with his other, a knife hand that chopped the man across the throat as hard as the Vindicare had ever used on a human. Aura flared to take the impact, but it was spread thin. The Vindicare felt the hyoid bone break, and the Atlesian fell to their knees, grabbing their throat. Aura kept them alive, and they gurgled, the broken edges of their ruined throat clicking together.

As the Vindicare moved to end him, all of the breath knocked from his body.

The brute was back, more animalistic than trained, and the Vindicare threw himself out of the crushing grasp. His wounded chest screamed, and as the Vindicare struggled to stay on his feet, the Atlesian punched him across the face. A sword skimmed him in the thigh.

Tears were forced to the Vindicare's eyes at the extreme pain. The tissue it penetrated was pure muscle and augmentics, and nicked an artery. The Vindicare could feel his blood pulsing against the cold steel. His body tried to close off the pathway, and succeeded partly. The capillary control muscles were damaged. Blood the Vindicare needed, instead spilled. Another punch came at his head, setting off a stikkbomb in his head. An overhead hook.

The Vindicare roared to stay conscious, as he slammed his own fist into it, the angle wrong and rushed. Two of his fingers dislocated, and one the wrist tendons were stretched to its maximum, aching and a second away from tearing.

The giant cleaved his sword down. The Vindicare raised his knife up, blocking instinctively, his other arm crossed against the flat of the blade. Red sparks flew from the adamantium edge of his knife, bright and biting on his skin. Dissonance fields sang. The Vindicare felt something give way.

The inferior metal of the Atlesian's sword was bisected in two.

The Vindicare pivoted, allowing the momentum of the hulk to carry him forward. And then the Vindicare stabbed him on the small of the back. Aura broke, a blue corona of light. The Atlesian turned to strike with the ruined blade, a move the Vindicare anticipated. He stabbed again, this time onto the sternum, the orbit curved up.

The cutting edge went through the skin and bone on the underside of the jaw and out where the man's nose had been, blood and gristle splashing onto the Vindicare's face.

He showed no mercy.

With a flick of the wrist, the Assassin destroyed the entire mandible. What remained screamed, or would have, if the Vindicare's next attack wasn't aimed laterally at the neck. Bright arterial blood sprayed onto his own.

The head hit the ground. A second later, the heavier impact of the body.

The only noises were his own laboured breathing, the crying of the private, and the rumble of the airship. The Vindicare's knees weakened, and he fell backwards onto his ass. Not good. He forced himself up. Reeling from another dizzy spell, he stumbled away from the orgy of violence behind him. If he passed out now, he would never awaken.

The private was still alive. The Vindicare slammed his uninjured wrist into their neck.

"Where's the medical kit?" he asked, knowing that the plane would have one. His voice faltered with exhaustion and blood loss. He pressed a foot against the private's broken leg. They screamed in agony, tears and snot dripping off their face. With a quivering hand, the private pointed left. Thirty seconds until the Vindicare bled out.

It was fortunate that it was next to the bay door, a white box with a blue cross down the middle. The Vindicare would not have been able to go much further. He pressed his fingers into his leg wound to apply pressure, a move that almost made him keel over. Blood was running over his fingers, and down his bare legs, a trail of black behind him.

"Emperor!" he screamed, spit and blood mixing together on his face. Twenty seconds.

The Vindicare stumbled, and hobbled, teetering on the brink of oblivion, towards the box.

︻┻┳══━

Ironwood waited, grinding his teeth and grabbing at his hair. The past few minutes, he had only been able to catch fragments of firefighting through the scroll. It had ended five seconds ago.

If Delta Squad had succeeded, someone would've reported back.

"Damn it!" Ironwood bellowed, slamming the device down with enough force to crack the wood.

He ended the call, and started a direct line to two stealth fighters. They were the best of the Atlesian air-to-air force, and patrolled the Grimm infested seas.

"This is Ursa Three One, state your orders, sir." The pilots said, their voices full of static. They were far from any CCT, and used a next-gen set to directly transmit to the General.

"Intercept the mark I just gave you," he said, inputting a few keystrokes onto his computer. "Bring it down by any means necessary."

A pause. "Sir, repeat your last?"

"Destroy the aircraft that I gave you!"

"Sir, that's one of ours… Are you sure you gave the right paramete-"

"I know it's one of ours damn it! I want that bird out of the sky!"

"Sir!"

Ironwood frothed at the mouth, and looked at the pilot's location on his map.

_Damn you Ozpin._

︻┻┳══━

The Vindicare treated his injuries in order of urgent, to "by the Emperor if he didn't do this now, he was going to meet his majesty later." He would have appreciated a stim, but his syn skin suit, and the healing agent inside, was roughly ten meters above his head.

It took the Vindicare fifteen seconds to attach a tourniquet to his leg. The majority of it was the discovery that his fine motor skills had deteriorated, and that he could no longer unclasp the medical kit. He forced his fingers back into their correct locations.

With a supreme effort, he tore the kit right off the wall, and collapsed into a sitting position, rifling through its contents. He worked steadily, knowing any mistake would be his last. He found a ubiquitous tourniquet, savior of bleeding guardsman. He was already effectively naked, and the device went directly onto his skin. As the Vindicare wrapped the blood stopper band around his pouring leg, he was incredibly relieved that it was automatic, the windlass tightening on its own.

The blood flow slowed to a trickle. The tourniquet punished and bruised, his muscles fighting against being compressed. He applied a second one, slightly higher, and what little flow diminished to an oozing. It didn't fix the problem, but it bought him time until he could properly deal with the wound.

He went through the kit again, taking out things he found useful. There was a portable hemo-pump, a flat shoulder pack that held half a liter of white liquid. Plasma and platelets, along with an artificial blood substitute. The Vindicare started on an IV in his left arm. Sliding the straps over his shoulder, he started the first infusion.

Warmth crept up through his arm, and he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. It had been a few minutes, but felt like a second, when the machine dinged empty. He replaced the empty bag with the second pack. His head was buzzing, as pure oxygen injected into his aching body.

The Vindicare put a tentative hand on his perforated chest. It burned and stung, the metal scratching with every breath. It was hitting his nerve bundles, the reason it hurt so much. His instincts told him to remove the foreign object, but he denied them. The metal inside him was firmly ingrained, and would need a team of surgeons to remove safely. He doubted he would get one. Breathing in, he checked if he was winded, or drowsy. If he did, pneumothorax was in short order.

Breathe in. And out. Difficult.

Diagnosis: Some air between his chest walls and his lungs. It needed to be removed.

There was a larger needle in the kit, one that the Vindicare recognized as a chest decompression needle. It would handle the air pocket.

The Vindicare chose the least painful part of his chest, the second intercostal space in the midclavicular line, and disinfected the surface with an alcohol wipe, a procedure he chuckled at. Bleeding to death, and with a collapsing lung, and he could still not do away with the meticulous nature of the training he had received.

He situated the angiocatheter at an angle to the chest wall. Normally, he would avoid damaging the delicate neurovascular structures underneath, but the shrapnel made it moot. He exhaled all the breath in him, and then stabbed inwards.

His skin resisted less than he expected. There were only traces of muscle in the location he had, and the needle moved forward towards his pleura unhampered. He knew it reached adequate depth when he felt a slight pop. Air hissed through the needle, an unsettling sensation. When the flow stopped, the Vindicare applied a vented chest seal. There was a hard cover in the kit, and he put it over the seal. After restoring function to his lung, he took an inquisitive breath, and was pleased to find it easier than before.

His bandaged leg was next on the list. There was contamination inside the wound, and despite the Vindicare's augmented physiology, likely to have some localized infection. His entire body was in bad shape, needed healing. Add in his lack of sleep, the rough handling, and his immune system was likely in tatters. Blood poisoning would be fatal. The Vindicare opened the edges a little to get better access.

He cleaned the area around the gash with a wipe, and flushed the wound with saline. There were a few stubborn pieces of metal left, andt he removed them with a pair of tweezers. Diluted black ran down his leg, when he accidentally forced too deep. The Vindicare worked with a clinical detachment, removing dead flesh here, clamping there. He worked with the pain, it telling him where it hurt, and him resolving the issue. A few minutes later, saline was splashed all around, and the wound was as clean as he could get it.

There were a few cuts on his feet that he irrigated and wrapped up. The shot to his collarbone had glanced off at an awkward angle, and he treated the wound the best he could. A few gashes that he coated, and covered, and finally, the Vindicare was back to his cut leg.

He frowned. The injury was in a part of the body that moved often, and would split open if he tried to run. A pressure dressing and bandage alone might loosen.

The wound needed to be forcefully closed. Yes. A drastic treatment, but necessary. Closing the wound also reduced scarring, which while it seemed a cosmetic concern only, would also permanently curb his ability to move. There was a medical tacker included, and he loaded it.

Starting at the edge of the wound, and at every centimeter, the Vindicare squeezed the trigger. The tourniquet deadened his nerves against pain, but didn't do much for the sensation. When he finished, he dressed the wound, using medical tape to hold the material in place, before wrapping it twice with a clear material.

Now to test it.

It was nerve-wracking when he loosened the first tourniquet, just a hair. Nothing so far. He took the thing off. A little bit of blood, but not too much. He unloosened the second. Warmth returned back into his leg, and with it, a wave of pain. Each staple ached. The bandage showed a significant amount of leakage, but it was controlled. The wound felt hot, a sign that his body had already begun the healing process.

The Vindicare switched to the third, and final unit of artificial blood. He took two pills of one type of painkiller that would destroy his liver if he overdosed, two pills of another that shredded through kidneys, and two pills of caffeine. Old guardsman trick. Kept the pain low, while not adding the brain as an opioid would. In the hardest medical procedure thus far, he swallowed them without water.

"Not too bad." He lied to himself. His bandages were cinched tight, and his wounds throbbed and smarted. And that was only the physical bit. He was without working weaponry, on an Emperor forsaken airbus that was travelling vertically. His profile was compromised, and he could no longer go to Vale or Atlas without being identified.

"Been through worse."

Now that, that was true. It made him feel a little better. There was no nurglite infection running through him, no Khornate Berserker running after him, and his wounds were treated.

The cockpit was above him, twenty five meters above him. A difficult climb in his condition.

One step at a time. Endure. He positioned himself to climb.

Before he could take the first step, the lights went out.

︻┻┳══━  
**Author's Note: Pew Pew, Bang, Bang, stabby stab, first aid. TLDR: Just imagine John Wick in a gimp suit shooting at X-Com soldiers, and then cut to Far Cry healing. I wanted to be a tad more realistic than a guy literally pulling rebar from himself, so sorry if the medical section was a little more boring than you expected. Vindicare isn't out of the woods yet, so keep your eyes peeled. Avocado out. **


	24. THE END: OR HOW THE FIC WOULD HAVE ENDED

**The title is true. **

I no longer have the time or the energy to maintain this fan fiction. When I started this a few months back, I was in a sort of interlude between jobs and departments at my office, where I worked part time hours for full time pay as HQ shuffled me around. This fic was sort of a writing exercise to practice and since I had a lot of free time.

Now that the transfer is complete, I work 8-6 most days and have to take business trips every month or so. Between fitting in time to eat, and time to work out, I no longer have the time to dedicate to this side project. I thank all of you who have supported this small little subsection of a small crossover fandom of two things that I happen to know some things about. I was never crazy about RWBY, nor jumped into its insane fandom, but I happened to know a thing or two about it. I am an avid Warhammer player though, and consume both the lore and tabletop at a wallet emptying rate.

**ABOUT THE POWER LEVELS IN THE FIC.**

This fic was supposed to be a what-if, from a batshit insane science fantasy, into what I consider a more reasonably powered American Anime-esque show. That being said, I have always believed the characters in RWBY to outclass Space Marines, but not by a massive margin.

Now I know, I know.

If you've seen the Respect Threads for RWBY, it puts the characters at a physics breaking power level, which i felt was not accurate. Sure, they have moments of impossible reflexes and skill, but I have always felt these to be cinematic or humorous choices rather than a depiction of strength. We, the watcher, can see the bullets in RWBY. Even so, I needed to give more Gimp Boy a chance, so I nerfed some characters.

Sue me.

**Now for the story.**

I came up with the plot in five minutes, and it was intended to be a comedy with some serious aspects and a plotline that would bind the RWBY universe and Warhammer 40k. Our Vindicare, like his brethren in the Imperium, are the bleeding edge of the Imperium, bar the Custodes. They train for a full decade, even with prior experience, and learn enough information that those with not enough "storage" in their brains can straight up overload and die. They are mechanics, doctors, trackers, history buffs, with a minor in Xenos biology and sociology. Assassins do in less than ideal situations such as little air, water, food, high gravity etc.

And this is all as a supplement to their ultimate purpose.

To **kill.**

This, as you can imagine makes them a tiny bit spastic.

Season One, with Grey as the end, was the familiar colourful world of RWBY seen through the eyes of a borderline autistic and emotionally stunted sniper, who has spent more time as a killer than as a normal child. My main goal in this season was to set power levels, display the equipment of the Vindicare, and poke a little fun at RWBY.

The main arc was based on the Vindicare loosening up as a person, taking baby steps into becoming a person rather than the Emperor's poisoned blades. I tried to show how weird he is from other people's perspectives, though not his own. I set up the Exitus Rifle as an unhealthy obsession rather than just a weapon. Here, I also show the Vindicare's insertion into the criminal element of Vale, meeting up with Torchwick.

I also establish that the Imperium had been there before. More on that later.

It ends with the dock scene, the same as in canon RWBY. The Vindicare does a few morally questionable acts, but since they were not named, it was meant to make the reader feel as the Vindicare did, that the lives he ended were unimportant and inconsequential. I also show part of the Black Ship training the Vindicare receive via flashbacks and dreams.

Exitus Acta Probat.

The ends justify the means.

The second arc was the Beacon life arc, showing the Vindicare beating up his team some more. It was intended to be more relaxed. Vindicare with team JNPR, GRWL, RWBY, and ending with a sudden burst into action courtesy of Ironwood, who by the way, is showing some signs of PTSD in V7 currently.

He shoots his way out.

And this is where I will leave the story as written by me.

What was to be, was the Vindicare landing in the ocean, minus the Exitus, and-

**HE. LOSES. HIS. SHIT.**

The mask was important piece of gear, but the rifle was a part of him, and losing it was like Yang losing her arm. Naturally, the Vindicare goes to Eversor levels of rage, and begins rampaging through the dragon shaped continent, which, I believe to be where the Grimmlands are. The Grimm fuck him up, and he is brought unconscious to Salem.

It's the lowest point of the story, the hero unarmed and defeated in the lap of the big bad Salem.

He wakes up. The pair talk, Salem trying to show that the two are the same, and the Vindicare denying it like the good brainwashed Assassin he is. After some time, Salem realizes she cannot corrupt him, and leaves him to die via feeding him to a Grimm. Along the way to the dungeon, lead by none other than Arthur Watts, the Vindicare breaks his hands to escape his bindings, kills Watts in a bloody fashion, and then throws himself out of a window to escape.

He survives, barely, and in graphic detail I describe the process of reattaching avulsed bones in his hand, and a partially torn Achilles Tendon. Hungry, and hurt, the Vindicare limps his way to safety, before collapsing again in the wilderness. This time, he falls into a fever dream, and I reveal what happened to him once he reaches Terra. The Black Ship subarc ends with a final firefight.

The Deathworlder survives, but the Vindicare is shot in the process, and begins bleeding out. In the nick of time, the ship arrives on Terra, with a full team of Scions extracting the two. They are separated as they are brought to the Assassinorum temple, with a sad scene where the Deathworlder says his goodbyes.

There is more bad news.

The neural augmentations have to be done sans anesthetic, as with his limited blood flow, and near death state, he would die if he was put under. The Vindicare is tortured to become what he is, and I figuratively and mentally mindfuck with the reader and him, by showing that the new synthetic nerve system grows over the old system, melding until the innate Machine Spirit, the Boy becomes one. Because the Vindicare is awake for this part, he suffers catastrophic memory loss, forgetting lots of things, including his own name. This is also why I never name him in the story, or the Deathworlder, who presumably, would have told his best mate his name.

The Vindicare wakes up in extreme pain which subsides, and he tests his augmentics.

At this point, the Vindicare wakes up in actual reality.

He sprints to the wreck of the ship he crashed, and finds a team of Atlesians who he submits willingly too. He is knocked unconscious during this as Atlas is a massive roid raging penis.

On Terra, the Vindicare is training, testing his new limits, and meeting his new teammates, who are also borderline spastic. The Deathworlder is not in sight, which confuses the Vindicare. They explain the process of training, and how eventually, once their skills were on par, the are taken under the apprenticeship of a Lord Assassin who completes their training. Our Vindicare struggles as he realizes he is only smart in a room full of geniuses. During this time of struggling, the Vindicare nearly breaks and ends his life.

The day before he eats a bullet, he receives a dream which he believes is from the Emperor himself. Rejuvenated, he throws himself into training, rising from the worst Assassin-in-training to a distinct mediocrity, barely making the cut from Assassin to Assassinorum Agent.

During Selection, the Vindicare is brought before a board of Assassins, one from each temple stationed on Terra. They scrutinize him, and he bombs the interview questions. It is long, painful, and awkward to listen to for the Reader. Enter our Vindicare's Lord Assassin, who enters, asks a few questions, and then leaves.

Our Vindicare is fairly certain he failed, but one night, he is kidnapped and brought before the Lord Assassin from earlier, who reveals that he is the Grand Master of the Assassinorum. He is infected with a uncurable illness from a mission against Nurgle cultists, and needs to find a replacement ASAP. Our Vindicare is special, as despite everything, he actually has emotions, just actively suppresses him. Those who have emotions generally don't ever make it to Terra.

I develop this idea earlier in the story, with the emotional suppressants and only his Lord Assassin and him needing them.

By a special decree by the Emperor himself, the Grand Master of the Assassinorum needs to have emotions, "Lest he forgets the soul in his sights."

The Vindicare is astonished, and his true training begins.

The final scene ends with the Vindicare waking up in Atlesian custody, facing a very angry Ironwood. Before he can be tortured again, Ozpin himself shows up, Mortis in hand, and plays the final message on the servo-skull.

Inquisitor Farrow meets Big O, the advisor, with the Inquisitor giving his tech to him in exchange for information. Ozpin then in turn gives it to the kingdom of Mantle, explaining Atlas's greater tech gap. Farrow is however, very suspicious of the planet's nature, and decides to conduct a genetic test of a citizen.

The big reveal?

People in RWBY are actually eldar-human hybrids, explaining their agility, speed, and reaction times, and inclination towards psyker abilities. The planet itself is on a planet with Necron pylons which shield it from the nearby Warp. The Vindicare nods along, disgusted, but not enough to go on a murderous rampage, which apparently, Farrow did.

The Vindicare cracks a joke about how he's not an Eversor.

Ozpin does not find it funny, as Farrow's crashed ship had one on ice. When Farrow went on his Xenophobic purge, the Eversor was thawed, completely fucking up Vale, and killing Ozpin's old incarnation. He is brought down only after all four kingdom's army's mustered together, and managed to force him back into his cryopod. This is also where Amber's life support tech is derived from.

The Volume ends with the Vindicare saying his only goal is to kill Salem. The three eye each other down, and the chapter ends.

**Author's Note: Will continue in a part two if you guys want. Sorry about disappointing, but I really no longer have the time. Thanks again, and see you, maybe, if I get another lull in work.**


End file.
